


Anything Like Home

by officemonkey



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Adopted Children, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Foster Care, Gen, M/M, No really tags are really hard, Tags Are Hard, kids are awful to each other, russian lullabyes and goldfish
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-23 14:21:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 13
Words: 24,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9661007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/officemonkey/pseuds/officemonkey
Summary: James Barnes is a kid on his last chance at having something like normal. Orphaned, adopted, and orphaned again, a string of terrible placements and a short time removed from society leaves him at the doorstep of a new home and a fresh start.





	1. Day One

_ Let’s go home, Barnes. _ That’s what Sam said the moment the hospital security gates rattled shut behind them.  _ Let’s go home.  _ Bucky repeats the words to himself about a thousand times in the car, watching glass and steel and asphalt give way to trees and bricks and wooden fences. He doesn’t know whether to classify this as a Good Thing or a Bad Thing. For two years, home was a joke - a locked ward in a hospital upstate, sharing a room with another kid who bit his toenails and talked too much. Before that -  _ no, that wasn’t anything like home -  _ he has a hard time remembering. The last place that felt like home is too far away. 

A few shreds drift across his mind - a little apartment, messy and warm - 12B - and the sound of a woman laughing. He remembers two fish in a little bowl, watching them swim back and forth, one white with orange spots and the other all orange. He remembers laying his head on the kitchen table while his mom and dad sat across from him. He was five. 

 

_ What do you want to name them, Buck? His dad always called him by his middle name. It confused him at first until mama explained it to him.  _

_ I get to pick?  _

_ Yeah. Go for it. _

_ Just one name or two?  _

_ How many do you think a fish needs? _

_ He stared at the bowl and thought a long time. Just one. They're too little for two names.  _

_ That's fine too.  _

_ He thought a little longer, watched them closer. Pointed at the white one - that one is Anya. Then the other one - that one is Nicky.  _

_ Mama smiled and ruffled his hair. He liked that. That’s perfect, baby.  _

_ Did you adopt them, too, mama? Like me? He watched her face while she thought about it.   _

_ Yes, we did. We picked them out special - just like you.  _

 

“Hey, you hungry?” Bucky jumps a little at the noise. He glances up, catches Sam watching him in the rearview mirror again. His eyebrows go up and he smiles a little. Sam spends entirely too much time watching him. It’s unnerving. Through all their sessions, even the ones where he said nothing, Sam watched and nodded and took notes All. The Time. He looks like he’s taking notes in his head now. 

“Eyes on the road, buddy,” Bucky grumbles and thumps his head against the window. They’re still driving. He has no idea where Sam’s taking him, only that it took forty five minutes of arguing with his supervisor before they were allowed to leave the hospital. Words like “liability” and “unstable” had floated out into the hallway. Words Bucky has heard a lot of in the past couple of years. Words he’s accepted as readily as his name. 

“I can multitask. You need food.” Bucky doesn’t argue. Arguing never goes anywhere good. There’s a little diner up ahead and Sam slows down, finding a spot without too much trouble. He loops the strap of his backpack over what’s left of his shoulder, swipes absently at itchy scar tissue as they cross the tiny parking lot. A couple leaving the restaurant look up and notice his conspicuously empty sleeve. He gives them a hard glare and they skitter off across the street. 

“You don’t have to bring that thing everywhere,” Sam reminds him. Bucky hitches the strap up again. 

“Yes I do,” he says to the sidewalk. Sam backs off. They take opposite sides of a small table near the kitchen. Sam opens one menu and slides the other one under his nose. “We’re not leaving till you eat something.”

Bucky huffs a little, blowing a piece of hair out of his face. He doesn’t bother with the menu - too much to look at. There’s a man at the counter eating a cheeseburger. “Can I have a cheeseburger?” 

Sam laughs and goes back to scanning the menu. “Whatever you want, Barnes.”

There’s not a whole lot of talking at first - they’re both starved and plates barely touch the table before food starts disappearing. Bucky doesn’t slow down until there’s nothing left but a sliver of cast-off tomato and three french fries.  _ holy shit this is good  _ He can’t remember the last time he had real,  _ actual _ food. With salt and grease and everything. The last two years have been a blur of technically nutritious planned meals completely devoid of flavor. Things like boiled vegetables and whole grains. Gaah. He licks a clump of ketchup off his thumb. The beginnings of a smile curl at the corner of his lips. 

Sam’s watching him again. Bucky slides down in his seat. “Umm, sorry.” 

“What for? Being hungry?” He’s laughing again. Still unnerving. Bucky lets his hair fall in his face. It puts up a little wall between him and the rest of the world, just enough space to get his shit back together. His face feels hot. He wants to melt into the ground. 

“Backing off.” Sam knows when to stop pushing. Sam knows a lot of things. 

He listens to the people around them, works on trying to breathe slowly. Dishes crash together in the kitchen and he flinches a little. Breathe in. The waitress has squeaky shoes. Fourteen steps and she stops just past their table. Breathe out. The lady at the table behind them orders a coffee, chef salad -  _ what the hell is a chef salad? -  _ and a strawberry milkshake. That sounds good. 

“Can I have a milkshake?” 

 

***

 

Twenty more minutes in the car brings them to a plain white house next to a short driveway. A woman kneels in the flowerbed that runs under two front windows, digging out weeds. She waves to Sam as they pull up and stands, wiping her hands down the front of a tidy blue-striped apron. Dark hair shot through with gray streaks peeks from under a yellow scarf knotted firmly around her head. She strides with confidence and a smile Bucky can feel even from a distance. 

“Samuel Thomas Wilson!” she calls out, crossing the yard as they get out. Sam’s barely clear of the car door before she wraps her arms around him. “How’s life in the big city, sweetie?” 

“Fine, Aunt Peggy,” Sam hugs her back, even picking her up a little. She giggles and it’s such a light sound. Bucky shifts his backpack strap and coughs.

“Aunt?” He flicks a glance between the two of them. No way they’re actually related. 

“Everyone calls me that,” she tucks an escaped curl back under her scarf and steps toward him. Bucky backs up a step, instinctively. Sam lays his hand on Peggy’s arm. 

“Not a big hugger, Aunt Peggy,” he says quietly. Her smile slips a little and she nods.

“Got it,” she offers her hand instead. Bucky squeezes it quickly and lets go. She pauses for a minute and he can tell she’s staring hard at what’s missing. Everyone stares - even the nice ones. It makes his scars itch again but he ignores it. No sense in making a weird moment worse by drawing attention to the space his arm used to occupy. “What can I call you?” 

“Um, James, ma’am.” He squirms under their combined gaze and now he really wants to melt into the ground. He grinds the toe of his shoe against the concrete.  _ Not a big fan of the staring, people.  _

“Well, come on in! We’re just finishing up with chores for the day,” the smile returns and she waves them both toward the front door. Sam retrieves a messenger bag from the front seat and jogs a few steps to catch up. Bucky follows Peggy inside.

This is what Sam called  _ home.  _ It’s warm and loud and smells like lemons and books. He hopes he doesn’t fuck it up too bad. 


	2. Lost Time

Everything after the incident happens in jagged chunks, five minutes at a time, in between long periods of nothing.  

He keeps trying to sit up. Hands stronger than him push down, pull down, keeping him still. There’s blood on his hands, on his clothes, in his hair.  Some of it is his. Most of it isn’t. 

Voices, someone shouting over him - barnes, james buchanan - age 14 -  _ hey, that’s me, i’m here, HEY! _ \- type a positive - two units - left arm closed fracture of radius and ulna, compound fracture of humerus -  _ why is nobody listening to me? I’M HERE! - god, get OFF of me _ \- 

Someone is screaming -  отпусти меня - let me go - over and over -  _ god why won’t they shut up? I can’t even thi -  _

_ Shit that’s me. When did i learn russian? _

_ Oh - right. _

He gives in to the hands and collapses back on the table. 

 

***

 

Now there’s a quieter voice right next to him - _ hey buddy - we’re gonna fix you right up _ \- they put something cold on his face. Everything feels about ten sizes too big for his skin. Someone put a sheet over his legs. He can’t see for shit. The quiet voice is nearby but all he can make out is a hand and a green top. It hurts to look at anything too hard.  _ Holy crap it’s hot in here -  _

_ Why is my face all itchy? _

He tries to pick up his arm, tries to find his own face. Instead pain rolls in out of nowhere. Someone is screaming again. His brain feels like static - static made of fire and glass -  _ god why won’t they SHUT -  _

_ Oh wait -  _

Green top floats closer and shushes him, fiddles with some beepy thing nearby. The static fades into kind of a warm puddle. -  _ don’t try to move buddy - your arm is a mess _ \- green top hovers over him closely. He looks up long enough to register blue eyes - soft and slightly worried-looking. Oh that’s nice. 

We’re gonna fix you right up, kid. 

Sounds further away and another voice - “they’re ready for you” 

 

***

 

This is a different room. It smells different. Less like death. He has a blanket now instead of just a sheet. He chances a peek around and manages a whole minute before the static returns. 

The walls are yellow instead of white. Green top is gone but there's a black guy sitting next to his bed, poking at a phone. He doesn’t look like he works here. He looks worried, too. He looks familiar. 

_ OK, that's enough.  _ He closes his eyes again. His face still itches. Somehow his left arm gets lost on the way to his face. He tries the right and finds an IV in the back of his hand that really does not want to be disturbed. It burns if he lifts his hand more than an inch or so. 

_ Fine. Never mind.  _

 

***

 

This time he can lift his head up a little. He turns to the left and Oddly Familiar Dude is still there. Dude's head is tilted back a little, snorts a little but doesn't move much. 

Is he - sleeping?

_ OK, let's make some noise.  _

“Uhhh - hey” Jesus H Christmas that hurts. Something in the back of his head kick up an image of a little kid in a tiny white office - hey, that's me.  _ Oh god this feels like that time I got strep.  _

_ Mama fed me popsicles for days. Hey, where is -  _ Oh. 

Yeah.

Shit. 

He tries again. “Hey. What day is it?” At least it's not Russian anymore. 

Dude comes around, scrubs a hand over his face and checks his phone. 

“Tuesday, I think?” He stretches and sits forward. “good to have you back, Barnes.” 

Bucky reaches for dude and yet again his arm somehow gets lost on the way and doesn't show up. Stupid arm. He lifts his head up more and tries to get a look at it. 

It's not there. 

_ Holy shit my arm _

Gone. Missing. Absent. There's the edge of the stupid gown hospitals make people wear. There's a big bundle of bandages across his shoulder, sticking out from said ugly clothing. There's the edge of the bed and the side of his left leg. And in between - 

Nothing. 

Dude speaks up. “You had an infection. Your arm was broken in five places, two of them were through the skin.” 

_ No way. No fucking way.  _

“You had two surgeries. Man they really tried to put you back together,” Dude stands up and looks out the window, rubs his face again. 

_ Oh really?  _ “Well they missed a part.”

“The infection came on fast. They couldn't save your arm.” 

Not even a little bit? Bullshit. 

Bucky flops back into the pillow. That's enough looking around for now. The static is starting to fill in at the edges of his vision. 

“Well can someone scratch my nose? It's been itching for days.” 

 

***

 

He gets food now. It’s mostly soup and toast but food is food. He’s starving. It's getting easier to stay awake since they stopped the morphine. The IV is gone. A nice lady comes by every so often and asks him if he'd like some pain medicine. 

His body has a really awesome way of reminding him when it's time for more meds. 

It drops pain on him out of nowhere like a bag of goddamn bricks. 

Dude is still hanging around. Bucky wonders if he sleeps here. He’s pacing the far end of the room, glancing at the window occasionally. Is that the same shirt? 

“Hey, who are you anyway, man?” Bucky feels around for the goofy little remote that’s supposed to make the bed go up. Dammit. Some idiot put it on the left edge of the bed. He grabs the rail with his right hand and pulls himself up to sitting instead. 

_ Hey, being upright is kind of cool. Lots to see from up here _ . 

“What’s the last thing you remember before you got here?” the guy stops pacing. Bucky scratches his head. Nothing comes to mind. Not immediately, anyway. 

“Ummm … Terry was there.” It’s a start. His brain kicks up sounds - yelling. Terry was yelling. She was pounding at the door. Somebody was crying - a little kid was crying. Terry was ( _ is? was? _ ) his - very much in name only - foster mom. Terry and Ed. He made it almost two years in that place. 

Fuck Terry and Ed. 

“And what happened next?” Bucky rubs his face and stares up at the ceiling. 

“And Becka. Terry was yelling at Becka. She didn’t fold the towels right or something.” static is tickling at the edges of his vision again. Something feels cold in his stomach. “We were hiding in the bathroom.” 

Shit did something happen to Becka? _Oh come on she’s just a kid - who the hell would -_ _i swear i’ll -_

What - kill someone? Really? Bit late for that. 

“Terry went to get Ed. I told Becka to hide in the bathtub.” his ears are picking up a low hum from nowhere in particular. 

“Anything else?” dude is straight staring at him now. Way to be unsettling, man. 

“Who are you?” the hum gets louder, and his gut goes colder. 

“My name’s Sam. We’ll get back to me later,” he sort of smiles but doesn’t drop his gaze. It’s only then Bucky notices the bandage on the guy’s forearm. Was he there, too? An image surfaces for just a second and suddenly sitting up isn’t so awesome anymore. “Do you remember anything else?”

Bucky lays back. 

“Ed came back. I didn’t let him have Becka. I  - I did something - I stopped him.” His stomach pitches again and Sam is back at his side with a plastic bucket. Some of today’s soup and toast ends up on Sam’s shoes. He doesn’t seem to mind and helps get Bucky cleaned up again. 

“That you did. Becka’s OK because of you.” Sam pulls up the chair again and pours a cup of water for him. The water is warm but it tastes better than recycled soup. Happy that Becka is safe. “What else do you remember?” 

Bucky hands back the cup and lays down, closes his eyes.  _ Uugghhh. Crap. _ He remembers Sam now. 

“Cops showed up. Lots of bright lights. You were with them.” Yep. That’s what happened.  

“And?”

“And I stabbed you in the arm.” he sighs. Sam smiles again. Weirdo. 

“Yeah, not the best introduction,” he shrugs. “Either way, I’m your social services representative now. Congratulations.” 

 

***

 

It takes three more days for Bucky to get his feet under him and four more before he’s released from recovery. He’s learning to manage even short a limb. The bandages come off and the mess underneath is still a bit much to handle. He asks for some long sleeve shirts. Sam brings him a few, left sleeves trimmed and sewn shut by hand.  _ Thanks, man _ . 

It isn’t until they’re leaving his room for the last time that he notices the two security guards hanging around. 

Sam walks him down three floors and behind a series of heavy steel doors. Locked doors. Checks in with a bored charge nurse. 

So this is it. Sam says it’s only two years. He tried hard, but photos of the meaty mess that used to be Ed made the judge go a little green. But after hearing what Ed was like from the kids under his care, the judge thought better. Two years in a hospital, weekly visits with a court-appointed counselor  _ (guess who _ ). Medication on schedule. Evaluations every other month. No prosthetic. So no new arm. 

Prosthetics apparently count as weapons. Well that sucks. 

  
  



	3. First Impressions

The first thing that greets them inside the door is an angry redheaded girl storming up the stairs. She’s covered in a surprising amount of tomato sauce. She stops to lean over the railing and scream back into the kitchen. “Goddamn it, Tony! I liked this shirt!” 

“I told her to stand back! Forewarned is fair warned and all that crap,” comes the reply from the kitchen, along with an unusual amount of metallic clanging. 

A very tall kid in a very bright red sweater with a ridiculously long blond braid hanging down his back pauses his vacuuming in the living room. He pushes his headphones back on one side, laughs a little and looks at Peggy. 

“Mother, I fear the insolent one has found a way past your restrictions,” he slides his headphones back up and resumes work, yelling once more over the noise. “He calls it three-meat-no-wheat-lasagna.”  

Peggy stands in the hallway and sighs. She tips her head back a little and puts her hands on her hips.  “Who traded Tony for dinner detail? After I  _ specifically  _ banned him from the kitchen?” 

The redheaded girl appears at the top of the stairs again, yanking a clean shirt over her head. “Talk to Clint. He’s been trying to get people to trade all day.” 

“Oh, I will.” She looks back to Sam and Bucky, smiles and shrugs. “Natasha, this is James. He’s going to be with us for a little while. Now will you be a dear and check the laundry?” 

Natasha waves a little and slips past them into the next room, barely slowing down. “Yes, ma’am. See you at dinner.” 

“Moving along,” Peggy waves them along the hallway, “we have an experiment to manage.” 

The kitchen is small but neatly kept except for one counter covered in bowls, slightly more tomato sauce than Natasha’s ill-fated shirt and what appears to be a solid block of bacon. The smell of something vaguely burnt still hangs in the air. At the center, a boy that can’t be much older than him puts the final touches on a large metal pan. He glances up through food-spattered goggles and grins. Something resembling a piece of onion sticks in his hair. Peggy folds her arms across her chest and does not return the smile. 

“Before you reinstate the kitchen ban, you should really try the sauce,” he dips a spoon in the side of the pan and holds it out. 

“You’re on the hook for cleanup, Anthony,” she takes the spoon, eyeing the sample suspiciously, but tries it anyway. 

“Gelatin bubbles,” he answers before she can ask. “They’re all designed to burst at different times while the lasagna cooks, filled with basil, garlic and onion. Optimal seasoning.” 

“Very good and I certainly look forward to dinner, but you’re still cleaning up,” she points at the far corner, where a dishtowel is casually yet suspiciously draped over a very oddly-shaped appliance. “And don’t think I don’t notice you dragged that thing into my kitchen to help you.” 

“Hey, don’t pick on Dummy - robots have feelings, too,” he carries the pan to the oven and whistles at the corner. “Isn't that right?”

The dishtowel moves in response. _ OK, never mind, nice meeting you all but we gotta run.  _ Bucky trades looks with Sam and tries to slip back up the hallway. Sam casually steps behind him and blocks the way, shakes his head. Tony catches sight of them now and looks back at Peggy. 

“Are  _ they  _ staying for dinner, too?” he throws his gloves on the counter and pushes the goggles back. 

“Yes, and James is coming to live here. We talked about this already,” she reminds him. He rolls his eyes and unceremoniously drops two bowls into the sink. They crash loudly in the small kitchen and Bucky jumps. 

“ _ And _ he’s twitchy. Awesome.” He drops a few more dishes in, watching for the reaction this time. Bucky takes a step back and bumps into the wall. He shoots a helpless glance at Sam, then closes his eyes.  _ God, i haven’t been here for five minutes and they hate me already.  _ Breathe in. Tony drops in another bowl. He feels Sam edging closer to him. Breathe out.  _ This blows.  _

“Take the attitude out back and help in the yard, Anthony. I’m sure Bruce will appreciate the company. You can finish up the kitchen later.” Peggy speaks slowly and quietly. Tony huffs and drops a plate in the sink. Breathe in. 

“Really? But there’s nature out there.” he whines. “I might get some on me.”  

“Move it,” she shakes her head. Breathe out. Bucky keeps his eyes closed, head resting back against the wall until he hears the glass door slide shut again. Peggy’s standing in front of him now, eyebrows bunched up and mouth turned down at the corners. 

“Don’t mind him one bit, James. He’s just difficult,” she guides them back through the hallway. “Let’s go take a look at your room. Now, we’re a little tight on space at the moment, so I’m afraid you’ll have a roommate at least for tonight. We can make some arrangements if that doesn’t work out.” 

They round the corner back towards the staircase. Just then, someone else comes tumbling down the stairs. “Aunt Peggy, I just saw Nat go into Tony’s room with a baseball bat again. You might want to - Bucky?“

The kid on the stairs takes one look at them and stops. Doesn’t even bother shutting his mouth while he stares. Bucky pauses in the middle of scratching his shoulder when he thought no one was looking.  _ Great. What was that about making a weird moment worse?  _

Bucky stares back, brain working overtime to place this one. He’s smaller than everyone else they’ve already seen, maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet, blond hair clipped short and tidy. Blue eyes like a clear sky. Of course. He looks like one of those pink-cheeked kids playing in leaves that they put on the cover of parenting magazines and brochures for antidepressants. Nothing surfaces. No, he’d remember running into this kid before. 

Peggy clears her throat and the boy shakes his head. “Did you have something to say, Steven?” 

“No, ma’am, just - wow. Buck, I never thought I’d see you again,” he takes the last few steps two at a time and throws his arms around Bucky. Everything freezes and there’s static in his ears again. Sam sucks in a sharp breath. His backpack drops to the floor and he can’t move to grab it. 

“Steven, let’s give our guest some space,” Peggy pulls him away by the arm and he steps back. He searches Bucky’s face, mouth pressed in a thin line. Breathe in.  _ What the hell. Is going on here.  _ Breathe out. 

_ He looks hurt. I don’t even know this guy and I’ve already fucked up. What the hell.  _ He wonders if it’s too late for Sam to take him back. Maybe he needs a couple more years. 

“You don’t remember Brooklyn, do you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finished this part earlier than expected, so here you go. Have fun because I have to go back to work tomorrow and it'll probably be another week until I can update again.


	4. Waiting for the Meteor

“Hey, are you OK, Barnes? What happened back there?” Sam drops down next to him on the front steps, leaving a space between them. Bucky shakes his head and keeps staring down the road. 

“I don’t know,” he doesn’t look at Sam, keeps watching the road. He doesn’t really want to talk but he also knows Sam’s not going to let him just run out of a room and then not say anything. Especially not that room, and certainly not that time. 

“You know the kid? Steve?” he goes right for the issue. Bucky runs his hand over his face and shakes his head again. 

“Don’t know.” So far, neither the memory of his life before nor a meteor to wipe them all out is coming up that road. Honestly, he’s hoping for the meteor. He shrugs and glances down at the backpack between his feet. “Don’t remember anything back that far. Coupla things here and there -”

“I know a guy, could look a few things up if you want, see if you went to school together or something,” Sam offers but Bucky shakes his head again and blows out the breath he’s been holding. 

“Take me back,” he says quietly.  _ Come on, meteor. Don’t leave me hanging. _

“No.” The response is swift and strong. He knows it’s useless to argue, but still - 

“I’m not ready.” 

“Sure you are.” 

“Look, this place seems nice and everything and I’m sure all these guys are  _ just super people _ , but -” Bucky stands and snatches his backpack strap, takes a step back to the car. Sam just reaches up and grabs a handful of his shirt and yanks down. Sitting is not optional. 

“But nothing. I’m not letting you wuss out and spend two more years hiding out in a hospital,” all pretense of joking or lightness has dropped from his face. 

“I heard you back there, though. I’m a  _ risk,  _ that’s what they said? You think these guys can stop me from flipping out again?” Bucky’s struggling to keep his voice down, keeps glancing back at the door. His eyes are prickling at the edges. He swipes his eyes quickly, wiping his hand on his pants before Sam sees the tears. 

“Yeah, Barnes, I think they can,” Sam snaps back. “God, give  _ yourself _ a chance for once, man. You got this.” 

“Sorry,” Bucky drops his pack and drags his hand over his face again, mostly to hide the redness creeping across his cheeks.  _ Jee-zus. Smooth move - picking a fight with the only person that’s got your back. _

“Hey, remember, you have a right to your feelings,” Sam softens almost instantly. “You’re allowed to be scared. This is a Big Thing.” 

“I know, I know,” he wipes his nose against the back of his hand. He swallows and starts again. “It’s just -”

“Just what, Barnes?” Sam turns his note-taking gaze back on. 

“It just sounds so stupid when you say it out loud.” they stare at each other for a long time, but Bucky cracks first, letting out something between a snort and a giggle. 

“You’ll be fine here,” Sam bumps him in the shoulder, gives a little smile. “Trust me.” 

“It’s not me I’m worried about.” 

Aunt Peggy shows him the room and the others have  _ dear god thanks  _ made themselves scarce. He drops his backpack between his feet and takes it in. Despite all the talk of space being tight, the room is way bigger than he’s ever had, even if he has to share it. Two wide windows face the backyard, a small desk set beneath one of them. It’s completely covered in papers, pencils and several sets of pens and markers, though it looks like someone tried to make it presentable. The bunk in the corner has a sturdy wood frame, and the bottom one is made up neatly, with a quilt and two pillows. Peggy answers before he can ask. 

“We made up the bottom for you so you wouldn’t have to deal with the ladder,” she smiles, “of course, if it’s -”

He shakes his head, running his eyes over the room. Pinned to the walls, taped to the sides of bookshelves, are hundreds of drawings. Some are divided into panes, like a comic book, some are color, others not so much. All of them are unbelievable. He reminds himself to breathe and mumbles a response. “No, it’s fine, ma’am.” 

“Well, then, I’ll leave you to unpacking,” Aunt Peggy pats him on the shoulder. He only flinches a little this time, and if she noticed, she’s not letting on. “You have half the closet and Steven says he cleaned out two drawers for you, too.” 

He nudges his pack with his toe. “I don’t take up a lot of space.” 

She regards the faded green backpack as well, lips pursed and arms folded. It’s not a very big bag and he can rattle off its contents in under a minute. Two shirts, long sleeve -  _ well, on one side at least _ \- a change of socks and underpants, courtesy of the hospital, two spiral notebooks, one full and falling apart, the other one new and clean, a pair of soft flannel pajama pants from one of the nurses, and a copy of  _ Good Omens _ he “forgot” to return to the library on multiple occasions. Way down in the bottom, where it stays mostly flat and well-protected, is a manila envelope containing everything he has left of his family. A handful of photos, birth certificate, adoption certificate (like it does any good anymore), and a clipped square of newspaper - his parents’ obituary. Everything he’s ever been able to call his own. 

“Make a list and we’ll get you sorted tomorrow,” Peggy starts for the stairs again, pausing at the doorway. “Get some rest. I’m sure you’ve had quite a day and I’d like to steal your Sam for a visit.” 

Bucky takes her advice, tucking his pack in the corner of the bed and toeing off his sneakers. He stretches out on the quilt and breathes in deep, surrounded by the smell of laundry soap. The afternoon sun slants lazily in through the windows and for the first time in a long while, he just takes it easy. He flexes and rotates his right arm, feeling the joint pop and the muscles let go. He closes his eyes and does the same on the left, concentrating on relaxing a tense muscle that doesn’t exist, pushing to move the remaining stub just past where scar tissue starts to resist.  _ It sucks but it’s gotta be done. Move it or lose it, Sam says _ . 

He doesn’t realize he’s fallen asleep until Sam knocks on the doorframe, keys in hand. The sun coming in the windows has taken on an orange tone. “C’mon, walk me out.” 

They stop in the kitchen and Bucky hears voices in the living room, talking and playing as they wait for the timer on the oven to go off. The table is laid out with plates and glasses, also awaiting the timer. Sam scribbles a couple numbers on a piece of paper and presses it into Bucky’s hand. Breathe in. The kitchen really does smell amazing. “If you need something, give me a call, I can be out here in an hour. I’ll be back next week to check in.” 

He glances once at the paper and shoves it in his pocket. Cell phone, office and what he assumes is Sam’s home number.  _ That meteor from earlier would be fantastic right about now.  _ Breathe out. “I still think this is a mistake.”

“Give it. A chance. Trust me.” He picks up his bag and nudges Bucky toward the living room. “You’ve got more in common than you realize.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I edited stuff this week. Yay!


	5. Killer Lasagna

There are a few more faces at the table than Bucky had seen around the house earlier. Natasha and Tony sit next to each other, the afternoon’s conflict pushed aside in favor of poking each other with forks and jostling for the seat closest to the food. Steve nearly kills himself to get around the table and claim the seat next to Bucky before the others sit down, but he still looks like a kicked puppy. The blond-haired kid running the vacuum earlier takes a seat next to Aunt Peggy. Apparently he’s just as loud without the vacuum and the headphones. 

“I find this meat and vegetable dish pleasing to see, Mother. Perhaps Brother Tony is worthy of the kitchen once again.” Peggy buries her face in her hands, but she’s smiling underneath. 

It’s nice to not always be the weirdest one in the room. 

A younger kid takes the seat on the other side of Steve, making a big show of inspecting the pan in front of them. A small plastic piece curls behind his ear, connected by a thin wire to a round piece further back on his head.  _ Huh. Maybe that’s what Sam meant.  _ There was a kid on his ward with one of those, but that one hadn’t handled suddenly being able to hear very well. He looks straight at Tony, eyebrow raised. 

“No wheat?” 

“Not even a little bit,” Tony assures him. “You won’t die if you eat it, Clint.” 

“No pureed hot peppers or any bullshit like that?” His expression doesn’t change. Tony rolls his eyes. 

“God,  _ one time _ ! Just one time, I try and have a little fun. Is  _ anyone _ going to let it drop?” 

As if on cue, every single person around the table stops what they’re doing and answers. “No.” 

The last person to join the meal sits across the table from Peggy and brings with him a large pitcher of lemonade. He’s easily six feet and dark hair surrounds his face in fat, messy curls.  _ No way this guy’s a foster.  _ She sees the look cross Bucky’s face and waves the guy over. “James, this is Bruce. He stays with us as well, and helps me look after the house and the garden.”

“Hi,” Bruce sets down the pitcher and sticks out his hand. Bucky does the polite thing, but tucks his hand back in his lap as soon as he’s able. He can tell Bruce notices but doesn’t seem to mind. “Aunt Peg, the carrots are ready to come up if you can spare a couple of people to come help me tomorrow.” 

“Sure thing, love. Have a seat, I’m sure we’re all famished.” 

After a hastily mumbled grace and before plates start getting passed around the table, Peggy introduces him to the assembled group. “As you’ve likely noticed by now, we have a new friend coming to stay with us. Please take time to introduce yourselves to James this evening, and help him get acclimated to our home in the coming days.” 

“Fine, fine - hi, welcome to the neighborhood. Can we eat now?” Tony rolls his eyes, one hand already on the pan. Peggy gives him a Disapproving Eyebrow but she nods. 

The lasagna really is amazing, even though it’s not so much traditional lasagna as it is bacon and sausage layered with three types of cheese and a very well-seasoned vegetable sauce. Bucky finds himself in a hotly contested race with both Steve and Clint for the last few spoonfuls.

The conversation is loud but light - mostly around a collective sense of surprise that Tony created something edible that also isn’t harboring a dark secret. He learns the pureed peppers incident was not a dinner attempt, but a cupcake filling, and may have involved a three-way prank war between him, Natasha and Bruce. He notices with more than a little gratitude that no one really points any of the conversation directly at him. 

“I can’t speak for all of us, but I think we can forgive Tony and let him back in the kitchen? Please?” Natasha gives Aunt Peggy her biggest, saddest gaze. 

“Yeah, I could totally get used to this,” Steve finally pushes his plate away and joins the pleading. “Let bygones be bygones?” 

Bruce considers the argument then joins in as well, “I’d be all for it if he can manage to not burn the place down. Pretty please, Aunt Peggy?” 

Peggy rolls her eyes and chuckles behind her hand, but Bucky’s the only one that sees her face. She pulls off “secretly not all that mad” really well. The knot of anxiety that had been sitting in his chest since he came in the room starts to loosen and he smiles, too. “Clint? How do you feel about this?” 

He looks up, clueless, in the middle of licking sauce off his plate. A tiny glob remains on his nose. “Huh? - Oh, yeah, um - I forgive you for all three times you tried to kill me. And I hate to cook, so have at it.”  

A chorus of squeaky pleases rise up from around the table. Peggy finally relents and makes the announcement, rubbing the bridge of her nose as she does so. “The kitchen ban is, as of today, no longer in effect. Tony may return to dinner detail.”  

“Awesome,” Tony says around the last bite of his creation. 

“But you’re still doing dishes tonight. And cleaning the tomato sauce off my ceiling.” 

***

Bucky thought he’d be all ready to hide out upstairs after dinner, but something about the stillness in the dark room puts him on edge, so he grabs his book and heads back to the warm bubble of the living room. He slips in and quietly claims a squishy chair in the corner. It’s comfortably situated on the border of being alone and being part of the group. Bruce helps Tony finish up in the kitchen and a very short but very heated discussion leads to most everyone disappearing down the stairs to settle a challenge via video game combat. 

A minute after everyone else has left, he’s startled out of his reading by a small voice nearby. “Are you coming down? We’re probably gonna watch a movie later.” 

He looks up from his book to Steve and shakes his head. “I’m fine here.”  

“Suit yourself,” Steve takes a few steps then spins back on him with new questions. Bucky almost drops his book. 

“How on earth do you not remember anything about Brooklyn?” 

_ Shit - this again? _

“Head trauma does that,” Bucky shrugs and tries to go back to reading, but Steve heads right back in the room and plants himself on the floor right next to his chair. 

“What, so you get bonked on the head and forget the fourth grade?” There’s almost an edge of anger in Steve’s voice. Suddenly his ribcage is a size too small. 

“It’s not like that,” he mumbles and picks at the corner of the page he was on.  _ Not. Having this. Today. Breathe in.  _

“So, what _ is _ it like?”  _ Ok, we’re all done here. Breathe out.  _

“More like you get the shit kicked out of you enough that things just leak out,” he spits back. He re-opens the book like it’s got instructions on how to make himself disappear and angles himself away from the conversation. “Not like you’d know anything about that.” 

Steve reaches up to him and lays a hand on his shoulder. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” he stumbles on his own words, “look, I -” 

The kid looks absolutely crushed. Bucky hears Sam’s voice in his head now -  _ give them a chance. Give yourself a chance.  _

But he thinks he knows me - he’s actually mad that I can’t remember. 

_ Barnes, get over yourself. Ever think that maybe he was just happy to have someone from his old life back? You know he didn’t exactly end up here through fortunate circumstances.  _

But he’s creeping me out. Got a staring problem. 

_ Stop being a dick.  _

Fine. Whatever. 

Something inside him goes all soft and files the defensive edge in his voice right off. 

“Hey, it’s all right, I’m the one should be sorry,” He tucks the book down the side of the chair and sits up.  _ Breathe in. _ “why don’t you - would you - tell me something about Brooklyn?” 

Steve leans his back against the chair, leaves a little space between them. “Figure you don’t remember the first time we met?”   
He shakes his head. 

“Well, me neither, but this is the story my ma used to tell me about it.” Steve tilts his head back a little, closes his eyes, lets the tiniest of smiles light across his face.  _ Looks like a goddamn greeting card.  _

“My ma says you’d only been in the country a few weeks. Your parents told everyone in the building when they left to get you - do you remember them?” 

“A little bit.” 

“Well, anyway, they were just tickled to finally bring you home. Everyone thought they were getting a baby, and they showed up with a four year old - it took some getting used to. Ma knew, though - she spent a lot of time helping your parents get ready. So, there was this one day, I was playing cars in the kitchen and my ma was cleaning up, so it was a Sunday I think.” 

“How do you know?” 

“Because she didn’t work on Sundays,” Steve runs a hand over his face and it goes dark for a second. “She had to work a lot.” 

“Oh.” 

“So, we’re just there minding our own business when there’s this noise in the hallway - your door slams open and you come running down the hall, just screaming your head off. We thought you might have gotten hurt or something, so she went out in the hall and got you, and we walked you right back to your place. Your ma was standing there - just looked awful, like she was about to cry. ‘I don’t know what happened, Sarah’ she just kept on saying and then she opened the door and you about ripped my ma’s arm off trying to get away. Kept pointing and screaming stuff in Russian. Ma says you kept calling it a monster.” 

Bucky realizes he’s folded himself up into the corner of the chair, toes dug into the edge of the cushion, and maybe it would be a good time to dig his fingernails out of his knee. “You know this isn’t really a good story, why would you tell me this?” 

Steve turns and grins up at him. “You’d never seen a vacuum cleaner before.”

“That’s all it was?” 

“Yeah. So, you stayed with us while your ma finished cleaning up. We played cars and made ants on a log, and when it was time for you to go home, you made me walk all the way back with you. Ma says you didn’t let go of my hand until you’d checked every inch of your apartment for the vacuum.” 

He laughs a little at this, but it does set off a flicker in the back of his mind - a silent, serious little dark-haired child, leading this pink-cheeked little ray of sunshine from room to room, looking under beds, behind doors. Clutching chubby fingers, both their hands still sticky with bits of peanut butter, pointing at potential hiding places and passing nods of acknowledgement back and forth. 

He doesn’t move again until Steve pushes at his knee. “Hey, you OK?” 

“Yeah, um,” he shakes his head, “just - you didn’t laugh at me. The women - your mom and my mom - they thought it was funny, but you didn’t. You didn’t think it was funny. Thanks.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK I'm not gonna lie, you guys. Whenever I see new comments here, there is an undignified amount dorky giggling. I'm having so much fun with this story and glad you all are, too.


	6. The Downside of Waking Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for being so patient - I had life things to do (like get caught in a giant brain worm hole) that kept me from finishing this over the weekend. Hope you all are enjoying the ride!

Bucky sleeps like the dead the first night. He would’ve slept through breakfast the next day except that Aunt Peggy has a rule that meals don’t start until everyone is at the table. Even on Sunday. He wakes up to three starved wolverines in various stages of consciousness. Tony’s poking him in the arm repeatedly and wheedling about cold bacon. Clint’s leaning heavily on Natasha and fiddling with his receiver in between yawns and flicking away eye boogers. 

It’s a little unnerving to wake up to an audience. 

“Come  _ on _ , gotta get moving Scaredy Squirrel,” he finally gives up on the poking once Bucky cracks an eyelid. It takes a minute for his brain to warm up, few more for actual communication to kick in. 

“What the hell are you all doing in here?” 

“Can’t eat until everyone’s at the table. It’s a  _ rule. _ ” Natasha folds her arms across her chest, looking far from functional. “This is also keeping me from my coffee.” 

Bucky disentangles himself from his blanket, blinks and stares at the gathering. They stare back at him. 

“Bacon,” Tony repeats slowly. 

“Coffee,” Natasha bears the look of one on the verge of violence. He’s not sure if it’s directed at him or Clint, who keeps resting his head on her shoulder while she’s trying to look menacing. He’s given up on the receiver, letting it hang loosely looped around a finger. He definitely bears the look of one on the verge of going back to sleep. 

“Fine,” he rolls out of bed and follows them to the kitchen. Steve is already downstairs, helping the others finish up and ferrying food to the table. The blond kid is just finishing setting the last two plates. Bruce fills glasses of orange juice next to each plate, save one. A single red coffee cup, steam rising from its contents, sits next to one plate and by the way she swoops around the table and claims it, he’s guessing it’s Natasha’s.

Peggy nudges them aside, carrying two plates of toasted bread, one white and one blue. She sets them down and taps Clint on the shoulder. Seeing he’s not yet plugged in, she makes a few signs at him and he nods back.

“Blue plate is rice bread. If you don’t have to eat it, don’t.” Steve appears at his side with a bowl of scrambled eggs, chuckling. “Stuff tastes like plaster.” 

He’s only three bites into a formidable pile of eggs when his brain finally catches up and reminds him of where he is, pitching out disjointed images of yelling at Sam on the front steps, sunlight filtering in the bedroom window across inked sketches, the smell of tomato and basil.  _ Breathe in.  _

Little kid fingers laced together, peeking behind doors and under beds.  _ And out. Only works if you let it back out.   _

Peanut butter and raisins and vacuum cleaners.  _ Any time now.  _

Bucky pushes his plate back. His scars itch and he’s not so hungry anymore. Steve bumps his knee against Bucky’s under the table. “You okay, Buck?” 

“Yeah, just - “ he stares down at the half-empty plate, “mornings are kinda rough."

Peggy glances up at him over the rim of a porcelain teacup. Tiny violets line the edge and the handle’s been glued back on a few times. She raises an eyebrow and he can barely look up at her. The air around him gets to feeling thin and something in the back of his head is still scrabbling for purchase.  

“James, could you fetch me a few napkins from the kitchen?” she sets down her cup and rests her hand across his for a second before he gets up. More quietly now, she gives him an encouraging smile. “Take your time, love.” 

Once he’s passed the doorway and out of sight of the others, Bucky leans back on the counter in front of the sink, scrubs his hand through sleep-tangled hair and focuses on remaining upright, slowing and reassembling the string of events from yesterday. Mornings are especially difficult, and waking up in a new place just increases the imbalance. 

_ You don’t remember Brooklyn, do you?  _

_ Head trauma does that.  _

He wonders if there was ever a time when waking up wasn’t so fucking hard. Mostly, he’d just wake up a little fuzzy on the details, but he’d see the same yellow note card on the side table every morning and read it, let things sink in. Sam made it for him, laminated (just in case), and even if the rest of his brain was shorted out, he’d remember to read the card. 

Yellow paper, plain black marker. Sam’s impossibly neat block printing on one side. 

_ You are safe. You are supposed to be here. If either of these things are not true, call Sam. _

Goofy and simplistic, yes. But it worked. 

Wide blue eyes peek at him from around the corner. Friendly neighborhood shadow. “You sick or something?” 

“No, ‘m OK.” He looks down, fiddles with the hem of his shirt. Steve takes a step into the room. 

“Is it - the head stuff?” 

“Yeah, sorta. Just - sometimes, when I wake up -”  _ breathe, stupid. Safe. Supposed to be here. Sam. Goddamn it, Sam. “ _ You know when you walk in when someone else is watching a movie and it's like a half hour in? Like you kind of get what's going on but you have no idea how anyone got where they are or why they're doing things?” 

Steve nods slowly. A flicker of understanding passes over him and his face falls a little. 

“It's like that. Sometimes I need a little time to reset.” 

“Wow, that really sucks.” They just stare at each other. It's not pity on Steve's face - he knows that look. Not pissed, not upset. Maybe a little  disappointed? No, that's  _ curiosity. _

Noise is picking up in the other room. Dishes rattle and chairs scrape the floor. Steve lets his gaze slide to the doorway. “Meanwhile, in a completely different movie…”

They stand there, giggling like idiots until other faces start showing up around the corner. Natasha pushes past both of them to get to the coffeemaker, clearly giving them the  _ have you gone mental _ glare. 

She breezes past with a full cup and flips them the bird when Steve snorts and starts all over again. “Idiots.”

Aunt Peggy reveals her very organized plan just after breakfast and Bucky spends the rest of the day being passed into the company of each of his new roommates in turn. He starts in the basement with Clint and (everyone swears that’s his real name) Thor, the kid with the impressive braid and oddly poetic grasp of English. The stairway leads down into a large open area, divided down the center by a low wall. One side still shows the basement’s concrete floor, though it’s been generously covered in thick rugs. Couches and a couple of big soft chairs fence in the far corner around a well-appointed entertainment center. The couches look to be the same vintage as the ones he always saw in the hospital day room -  _ where do they even find that brown plaid crap? _ \- but the game system is so new he doesn’t recognize it. Four controllers rest on the cabinet top. 

“See, this is why we start in the basement.” Clint launches himself over the back of one of the couches, somehow having grabbed a controller and flipped on the TV on his way over. “Best room in the house.” 

Thor stays by the foot of the stairs, only a step ahead of Bucky. He shakes his head and  laughs. “Friend James, there is more to this room than our dear brother would have you believe.” 

“I see that.” He stops at the long table that lines the wall nearest the stairs. A few laptops are plugged in between stacks of notebooks and folders. Reference and textbooks fill the shelf. He runs his finger along the shelf, tilting his head to read the spines of the books. This section starts at  _ Consumer Math  _ and ends at  _ Discrete and Combinatorial Mathematics _ . Mechanical engineering texts follow. 

“I prefer applied sciences - we also have several texts on botany, if you find interest.” Thor’s braid swings with him as he turns to a second set of shelves, proudly pointing out yet another collection. “Geology is quite a surprising course of study -”

“No, no! Not the books! Come to the bright shiny objects!” Clint pops up over the back of the couch. “God, don’t tell me you’re another math nerd -”

Bucky shakes his head, but keeps checking out the bookcase. “Nope, I suck at math.”

“Me, too. So, get your ass over here, I have better games.” In short order, Clint finds himself being scooped off the couch by the much taller boy, who’s barely breaking a sweat as he throws him over his shoulder and crosses the room. He starts to kick, but Thor makes absolutely no move to set him down, instead turning to the space beyond the low wall with a satisfied grin. 

_ OK, remind me not to piss him off.  _

“I am also terrible with numbers, but I do understand how to complete assignments without distraction - we will have time for your imaginative sport later on. Let us continue.” This side of the floor is covered in padded vinyl and Bucky is immediately reminded of the therapy room. Only difference is that the therapy room lacked a bin of soft hand targets, sparring gear and a punching bag hanging from a beam in the ceiling. 

“Some of us prefer more physical pursuits.” He sweeps a hand across the area. “If you like, there is training - ” an exaggeratedly heavy sigh breaks in from behind Thor. Bucky trades looks with him and cracks a smile. 

“Fine. Put me down and I’ll stay on task, ya jerk.” Clint is returned to his original upright condition. He shakes his head and repositions the slipped receiver. “And he’s right - Aunt Peg’ll sign you up for classes if you want - twice a week in the city or you can pick a fight with this musclebound idiot and learn the hard way.” 

Thor claps him on the shoulder and laughs again. “I fear I am not the adept combatant he thinks I am - there are others that quite surpass my skill.” 

“Really?” he couldn’t imagine there was anyone who could take this guy on. He follows the boys as they pass through a second door on the far side of the room. 

“Beware the fire-haired one.” he says simply. Clint giggles and turns back to Bucky. 

 

“And stay out of her skittles. Nat’ll kick your ass over some skittles. Anywho, laundry room. Ta-da.” he sounds less than thrilled. The room beyond the door leads to the unfinished portion of the basement. Here, two washers and dryers stand ready behind three full baskets awaiting their attention. 

“If Junior Mom will let us, we can go back to the fun side after I get the wash going. You can - uh - ” he looks Bucky up and down. Glances down at the baskets. Back up to Bucky. “ - never mind.” 

_ Who’s the jerk now?  _

“I can lend a  _ hand, _ ” he snickers and pushes Clint aside. People always get a little tripped up when he makes amputee jokes. He’s actually got pretty good balance and none of the baskets are too heavy to pick up between his right arm and hip. He manages to get the two washers loaded before the other boy regains the power of speech. “Where’s the soap?” 

“Showoff.” Bucky gets bumped out of the way. Clint adds the soap and drops both lids. The machines start to fill with water. “All done! Let’s go!” 

Something catches his eye when he turns. There is a third door on the back wall, like any other door he’s passed in the last two days - this one, however, is latched with a shiny brass deadbolt. The other boys catch him staring. 

“What’s that?” If his time at the hospital taught him anything, it’s that locked doors mean one of two things - what’s on the other side is either awesome or awful. 

“Nat's room.” Clint shrugs and tries to hurry them along.

“Why the lock?” 

“Buh. Ask her. She doesn't like people in her stuff. Ever played Call of Duty?” 

 

***

 

They figure out after several rounds of getting their asses handed to them, that the only way to end Clint’s reign of terror is to combine forces and share a controller. Between Thor’s utter lack of reaction time and Bucky’s utter lack of a left arm, they manage to turn the tide of the game and eventually force their singular opponent into surrender. Still, he gloats. 

“See? Not a single one of you can take me!” Clint drops the controller and rolls off the couch. Bucky turns to his partner just in time to see him roll his eyes with great flourish. 

“Yet you remain defeated.” Thor grins and bumps his shoulder against Bucky’s. “You never specified that we could not create an alliance.” 

“Dude, it took  _ both of you.” _ The smirk begs to be wiped off his face. 

Bucky can’t leave it alone. He stretches out and looks Clint up and down. “I kicked your ass with one thumb.” 

“God, you guys -” Clint blows out a breath in frustration. In the other room, one of the dryers buzzes. He tries to get Thor back on his side, but he, too, is parking his feet on the coffee table and wearing a contented smile. 

“I believe you are to be retriever of clothes, then.” 

 


	7. Oatmeal Cookies

“An airport? No way - just wandering around out there?” Bucky glances up at Thor, who nods solemnly. 

“Nothing but a one-way ticket from Norway and half a bagel.” Clint responds first, picking through the pile of laundry. 

“Indeed,” Thor folds another shirt and places it neatly into one of the baskets. “But for the kindness of some young ladies at the coffee dispensary, it could have gone very differently. They discovered me and tended to my needs until your friend Sam came to collect me.” 

They’ve dumped the first two baskets of clean laundry in the middle of the floor, sorting and folding while the next loads finish up in the dryer. Bucky sits on the floor before a pile of socks, tasked with matching. A small island of them, rolled and tucked in pairs grows next to him. Clint and Thor each have a pile of clothes to work through. 

“If you couldn’t tell yet, Aunt Peggy has a soft spot for weirdos.” Clint throws another sock onto the pile at his feet. 

“My parents sent me to this country to reside with my uncle, but when I arrived no one was there to receive me. My uncle had passed away.” 

“What about your parents? They couldn’t just come and get you?” 

“Unreachable. I was told several attempts were made, to no avail.” He shakes his head a little and folds the next shirt very slowly, not lifting his head up from his lap. “I never heard from them again.” 

Nobody says anything for a few minutes. Bucky studies the pile in front of him, looking for another match. His eyes drift back up to Thor, who’s still just sitting there, running his fingers over the fabric in his lap. He looks a million miles away. Even Clint’s mouth is turned down at the corners as he keeps sorting. Finally, he balls up a shirt and pitches it at Thor’s head. 

“But you got us instead - can’t be that bad of a trade off, right?” This is enough to bring him back to the moment and he chuckles.

“I suppose not, Brother. Though I do seem to recall that my parents bathed a great deal more often than you do.” he lifts the shirt thrown at him gingerly and tosses it back into Clint’s lap. “This one appears to retain your essence even after washing.”  

“I am possibly the awesomest roommate alive and this is how you treat me?” he turns to Bucky, holds up a hand. “Quick - I need ammo.” 

He pitches one of the pairs to Clint and inadvertently starts a war. Five minutes later, he’s feeding both sides of the battle, hiding behind the table and an upended laundry basket. Nobody sees Natasha standing at the foot of the stairs, stifling a giggle against the back of her hand. Her bright red hair is pulled back and pinned into a tight bun. She coughs loudly and two-thirds of the room freezes. Bucky shoves the empty basket at Clint and he spins mid-throw. He drops his arm immediately. 

“Hope you’re planning on picking all this up,” she folds her arms and arches an eyebrow at them. “I need the new kid upstairs.” 

“Yes, ma’am!” Clint jumps up and gives a sloppy and overly enthusiastic salute. He starts to gather up discarded clothes but rolls his eyes and tosses everything on the couch as soon as she turns away from him. 

“You - come with me.” She points at Bucky and turns back up the stairs. He hears a scuffle and another giggle behind him seconds before a sock-ball goes whizzing past his ear. 

Before anyone has a chance to move, she’s caught it and sent it flying back across the room. Clint yelps when it catches him in the side. Now, she lets the smile spread across her face. “You should know better by now, boy-child.”

 

***

 

He’s still trying to figure out how she actually made that hurt when she leads him into the kitchen and stops in front of the counter. A plate of cookies rests next to two glasses of juice. She hops up on a stool and pats the one next to her. “Snack time.” 

He hangs back a minute longer. She stares at him for a second, then smiles. 

“If it helps, Aunt Peggy made these. Just plain old oatmeal cookies.” 

“It’s not that, just - snack time? Really?” Even the hospital, land of regimen and routine, did not have snack time. She leans back on the counter and swings her feet. Her socks are bright green with panda faces on them. 

“Figured you could use a break from the wonder twins. They get a little loud after a while,” she picks up the top cookie and takes a bite. 

_ So far so good. Might as well.  _ Bucky takes a seat and tries one of the cookies. They do not disappoint. “I didn’t realize laundry could be so - confrontational.”

“They got you into the video games didn’t they?” she says around another bite. He nods. 

“Tried to beat the pants off you so you’d have to do all the folding?” she asks. He shakes his head. 

“We formed an alliance.” He takes a drink of the juice. It’s sweet and just a little bit tart. Lacks the weird chemical tang of institutional apple juice. Natasha laughs at this and takes a drink as well. 

“Well I’m sure Thor’s very happy about that. He’s been losing to Clint for six months now. Gotten pretty good at folding laundry, though.” she finishes her cookie and grabs a second one. The quiet settles nicely around them, a welcome change from the constant chatter and noise in the basement. He hooks his feet around the legs of the stool and gazes out the window. He catches sight of Peggy’s yellow scarf in the yard as she kneels in the garden. Steve’s standing next to her, holding a basket. He swings it in a lazy circle while she digs, occasionally reaching up to drop something in, and he’s just smiling the whole time. Like nothing bad could ever happen out there. The sun shines off his hair and everything’s just so  _ bright _ \- 

 

_ He always liked Sarah’s apartment just a little bit more than his own. In the living room, she had this great big window that looked out over the park across the street. So bright that she always kept the lights off in the living room in the afternoon.  _

_ When his mom and dad both had to work, he would always go home with Steve, and they would all sit next to that big, bright window and draw. They’d lay on their bellies on the floor with a pile of crayons between them, filling up a sheet of butcher paper with doodles and shapes. Sometimes Sarah would drag out one of her sketchbooks and the smudgy pastel sticks that always got on his fingers when he touched them. On those days, she would sit up in the windowsill, peeking over the top of her paper from time to time, while she filled pages drawing the boys’ hands curled around crayons, their faces, the way Bucky’s hair would always fall in his face while he was working, the way Steve would stick his tongue out on the side of his mouth when he was really focused.  _

 

_ She had hair like that - bright blonde hair that just caught the sun and turned to gold.  _

 

_ He looks just like his mom -  _

 

“Hey.” Natasha shoves him out of his own head and knocks him off balance for a second. He sucks in a quick breath and reminds himself for the second time that day.  _ Safe. Supposed to be here. “ _ Space out much?” 

He coughs and runs his hand back through his hair. A dark curl had fallen in his face. Still like it was back then, only a little longer.  _ Back then?  _  “Uhh - no?” 

She laughs and pushes the plate toward him. “You need another cookie.” 

He complies and picks up another cookie, nibbles at the edge while he watches Steve and Peggy in the garden. He wonders what else will surface -  _ if anything else will.  _ He hears Natasha breathing as she looks over his shoulder. 

“Yes, picking carrots, fascinating. The suburban farmers in their natural habitat.” she yawns. 

“You guys have a garden?” 

“Yeah, that’s mostly Bruce’s thing,” she picks up her cup and turns it in her hands, “but that’s not what you’re staring at, is it?” 

He drops his eyes to the table, cheeks burning. He slides away from her a few inches. Her smile widens and she drinks up the last of her juice. 

“Do you know him?” she slides off the stool and grabs his near-empty cup as well, shuffles over to the fridge. “He seems to know you awfully well.” 

“Kind of - maybe? I don’t know - that was a long time ago.” Bucky starts to get up and slip out of the kitchen while she’s got her head behind the door but she sticks a leg out right as he passes behind her. 

“Not so fast, there.” she points back at the counter. “Sit.” 

He returns to the stool quietly, pulls in a steadying breath while she fills both glasses and resumes her seat. She picks up another cookie and sets one in front of him. 

“Was he from the foster home? The one before your little trip upstate?” 

“How do you know about that? Sam said he -” she holds up a finger and stops him. 

“Sam needs to change the password on his laptop.”  _ what the ever-loving fuck, Sam?  _

He swallows back the lump rising in his throat and Natasha’s eyes go wide. “Shit - hey, look, I’m not trying to - you don’t have to talk to me. I just - just wanted to find out about you.” 

“Yeah, not really interested in sharing if you couldn’t tell. It’s hard enough - ” he pushes back from the counter and stands up.  _ Fuck this.  _

“I just thought it was cool we had something in common.” Now she’s staring into her lap, picking at her fingernails. She sniffles and Bucky sits right back down.  _ Don’t be the asshole.  _

“What the hell could we possibly have in common?” he glares at her while she pulls her sleeve down over her hand and drags it across her face. She blinks a few times. 

“You’re from Kursk, too. I came over when I was seven.” 

_ Well, that’s certainly something.  _

“I was four.” his shoulder is starting to itch, so he runs a fingernail along the edge of the largest scar through the fabric of his shirt. She glances at him but doesn’t linger. 

“You don’t have to talk to me,” she wipes her face again, “I know you went through a bunch of shit before you got here.” 

“No, it’s - Sam says I should talk more. Hey -” he picks up a cookie and tilts a smile at her. “How about this? I’ll answer a question if you answer one for me. I could use to find out some things around here.”

“So, Sam didn’t really fill you in on this place, did he?” 

“No, not really, just that he’s known Peggy forever and he really wants me to like it here,” he takes a bite of the cookie. “That counts as a question. My turn - is his name really Thor?” 

“Yes. Yes, it is. Honest to god, I’ll show you the paperwork. My turn now, same as before - where do you know Steve?” 

“From a very long time ago, if he’s right. Right after I got adopted.” 

“So before the foster home?” 

“That’s two questions - one more for you first. Did Peggy adopt you from Kursk?” 

“No.” she swipes the second to last cookie off the plate. “Now answer.”

“Yes, before that place. We were friends a long time ago,” he scratches at his shoulder again and nudges her foot with his. “What’s up with the socks?”

“They make me happy. Why do you sew your sleeve shut?”

“It’s a goddamn crime scene under there. What’s Tony’s deal?”

“What do you mean?” She lifts an eyebrow at the question. 

“Seems kind of like an asshole.” He shrugs and snags the last cookie. “Don’t think he much cares for me.” 

“Doesn’t like new people. Don’t take it personally, he got all bitchy when Steve showed up last year, too.” Natasha points out the window. “Why do you keep spacing out and staring at Steve, anyway?”

“Because I remembered something. Something about his mom, from a really long time ago.” Bucky lets his eyes wander back out the window. Steve’s down next to Peggy now, a little smudge of dirt on his forehead. He’s laughing at something.  _ Like nothing can touch him out there. That’s what safe looks like. _ “How did he end up here anyway?” 

“His mom died.” 


	8. The Late Show

Sunday dinner is something special. Peggy and Bruce take to the kitchen, armed with freshly scrubbed baskets of vegetables and quite a bit more experience than any of the kids. They move past each other with practiced ease, music playing softly in the background, murmuring reminders and suggestions back and forth. The knife on the cutting board makes a pleasant and precise rhythm as Peggy reduces piles of carrots and zucchini to matchsticks. 

Bucky gets lost watching this slow dance in the kitchen, over the edge of the laptop monitor he’s supposed to be paying attention to. A hand flutters in front of his face momentarily. He shakes his head and refocuses on the screen. 

“If she catches you staring - well, that’s just gonna be awkward.” Tony taps at the keyboard a few more times and leans back. 

“I wasn’t -”

“Sure, you wasn’t -”

“No, really - ” He sighs and closes his eyes. They'd been at this for less than twenty minutes and he already wants to smack that stupid smirk right off Tony's face. “Just - what am I supposed to do now?”

“You need a username and a password,” he points at the keyboard. Bucky hunts and pecks his way through  _ jbarnes _ , scratches his chin for a second, then leans back over the keyboard and pokes out  _ bucky  _ on the password line _. _ Tony giggles over his shoulder. 

“You are absolutely no fun. Was your sense of humor also removed with your arm?” He pulls the keyboard back in front of him and finishes the setup. 

“Don’t need both arms to kick your ass.” 

“Easy there, princess - look, it's your account. Do what you want.” Bucky falls silent and spaces out to the sound of pots boiling and Peggy humming along with the radio. Tony sighs heavily and pokes at the keyboard a few more times. “No. Fun. At all.” 

“What is all this for anyway?”

“Umm internet access? Communication? I mean, if you really want, you can do all your homework on paper and go back to passing notes, or - ” he nudges the laptop back towards Bucky and opens a new window, “ - you can skip all that crap. This is your contact list. From here, you can send emails, text and Skype. All this syncs to your phone so if you change something in one place, it changes everywhere.” 

“There's a phone too?”

Tony snorts and pushes a second device in front of him. “Of course there's a phone, we're not  _ animals.” _

He runs a finger across the surface of the phone and it blinks to life. There's about twenty more buttons than he's used to seeing and about thirty more than he could imagine needing. Apparently, thirty seconds is too long to stare. 

“Oh,  _ come on _ \- stop acting like you’ve never seen a phone before. Were you locked in an old folks’ home or something?” There’s that smirk again. He wonders how much shit he’d get in if he just pitched the phone at Tony’s head. 

“You ever think before you talk?” 

“I try not to. Takes all the fun out of things.” Tony closes the laptop, pushes back from the table. “OK, there. You’re done.”

“And?” 

“And what? Use it - text people, play some Candy Crush - have you ever heard of Reddit? That’s a good way to lose a day or three. Whatever you do, you’ll probably want to start looking busy soon.” Tony peeks past the doorway into the kitchen, listens to the low buzz of activity backed by what sounds like Simon & Garfunkel now. He waves Bucky closer. “Look, don’t think I’m trying to get all buddy buddy or whatever, but I’m gonna do you a solid here. There’s a pattern to Sundays. In about five minutes, the music is going to switch over to ABBA.”

Bucky leans in closer. “Is this a bad thing?” 

“Other than being an objectively terrible band, yes.” Tony nods solemnly and continues. “Because after the ABBA starts, they’re going to start trolling for victims. It all starts with - ‘I want to show you something’ - but once you’re in there, Aunt Peg’s gonna go all misty-eyed about the old days and next thing you know - bam! You’re scrubbing pots.” 

“What’s so bad about that?”  _ What won’t you do to avoid a few chores? _

“Fine - don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Tony takes one last glance into the kitchen and splits as soon as Bruce looks his way. 

“Have fun with that stuff - come find me when you break it.” 

He takes off back up the stairs before Bucky can even get out a half-formed “break what?” and he’s alone again, staring at a pile of tech that apparently belongs to him now. He picks up the phone and flips through a few apps. 

_ Oh hey - I have contacts already. That’s cool.  _ He presses the little text bubble next to Sam’s name. Types a quick message.  _ They gave me a phone.  _

Two minutes later, the phone buzzes in his hand.  _ nice. how are you doing? _

_ ok i think  _

He pauses for a minute, cocks an ear toward the kitchen door. Sure enough, the little speaker on the windowsill is releasing the first strains of Dancing Queen across the room. 

_ food’s good _ he adds. Watches the line of dots rise and fall, waiting for Sam to respond. 

_ great - see you in a week _

_ sure _

_ you’ll be fine barnes _

_ you think? _

_ I know _

“Hey, James is it?” Bucky looks up. Bruce is standing in the doorway, bowl of  _ \- something - brown sauce and chicken? -  _ tucked under one arm. “C’mere, I want to show you something.” 

A half-hour later he’s pretty sure Tony’s “pattern” is bullshit. ABBA’s not all that bad and he’s gotten quite the preview show of dinner, testing out a spicy veggie stir fry and chicken glazed in something with honey and sesame seeds. He even sways a little to the music, layering apple slices and cinnamon in a pan for the dessert. So what if he washed a few dishes, too. Peggy giggles and opens a cabinet, starts counting out plates. 

“See, now that’s what I mean - all the kids  _ say  _ it’s crap, but you can’t resist. Music like this just takes you - you can’t help it.” She does a little spin and sets the plates at the end of the counter. Stirring the pan of chicken again, Bruce points the spatula at her. 

“Are you still stuck on that? James, you’re my witness - I made fun of ABBA once. Five years ago. And she hasn’t let me forget since.” He leans over Bucky's shoulder and whispers. “She takes her Swedish pop very seriously.” 

“I believe, by law, I am responsible for the  _ cultural development  _ of my charges as well, young man.” She turns back long enough to poke Bruce in the chest on her way to retrieving glasses. She’s easily six inches shorter yet he’s the one that backs up a step. The force of her presence takes up the remaining height difference. Give or take an inch. 

“Aww, she’s whippin’ out the ‘young man’, dude. She means business.” As soon as Peggy turns her back again, he plants his hands on his hips and makes a face. He can't help a smile. The heat in the kitchen just has a way of sinking right in, smoothing over some of the rough spots in his soul with its spicy-vinegar smells and cinnamon sugar stuck to his fingers. Peggy slips past just behind him. 

“Well don’t you look pleased. Having fun?” she squeezes his shoulder as she passes. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he hums a little, sprinkles on another layer of cinnamon. 

“Have you done much baking?” Peggy passes by again, swipes a chunk of apple out of the pan and pops it in her mouth. The next smile comes easily. 

“No, ma’am,” he lays on a few more apples, “wasn’t part of my occupational therapy, I guess.” 

“We’ll sort you out,” she grins at him and steals another apple. “Have you making those atrocious cupcakes the children seem to be so fond of in no time.” 

“Aunt Peggy, that was a  _ joke _ ,” Bruce heaves a sigh in front of the sink. 

“You know I think Anthony was onto something, that pepper jelly could have really popped with the right topping.”

“She’s serious, James. We’re all in trouble now.” Bruce peeks over his shoulder and grabs a few more apples out of the basket. “I’ll cut up some more, but if you see her heading your way with a bottle of hot sauce, defend the crumble, man.” Warmth seeping under his skin, settling into his belly. 

 

_ This is nothing like before. Not even a little bit.  _

His mouth turns down and the conversation going past him starts to slip away, replaced by other words in another kitchen. Carefully laying out slices of cheese and whatever he could get his hands on that day, Becka on a step stool next to him, pressing a careful diagonal line into each sandwich with a butterknife. This was the late show. 

_ Four kids, laying still and silent, waiting for Terry to snort and snuffle herself off to sleep. Ten-fifteen, like clockwork, and he rolled out of bed, slid across the room and twiddled six year old Becka’s nose until she woke up, too. He’d always head down the stairs first - just in case. It was Becka’s job to wake the others and lead them down.  _

_ Terry and Ed took every opportunity to divide the kids, pit them against one another, if they felt like the kids were getting too friendly. So, dinner became an arbitrary and unequally applied reward for ratting each other out. Honestly Bucky didn't mind taking the heat for the younger kids, but it wasn’t a sustainable plan.  _

_ The late show was Eli’s idea. Elijah, pushing sixteen with a broken right hand that healed crooked, noticed just how deeply Terry and Ed slept some nights.  _

_ That night, it was sliced turkey Bucky got from a kid down the street in exchange for walking his dog. Sure he’d caught hell for not finishing his part of the yard work but that trade would last them through a week easily.  _

_ He glanced back at the kitchen table where Eli sat, resting his head on the table with one arm curled around his contribution - four huge red apples. Cassie, ten years old and barely taller than Becka, leaned against Eli, eyes and nose reddened. She’d been sick for days but not exempt from chores. They were all tired.  _

_ Becka wobbled on the stepstool. He bumped her with his elbow gently while they worked side by side. “Hey, monkey. What’s up - you sick? Wanna go sit down?”  _

_ She smiled but shook her head and reached past him for the next plate. It was the way she pulled back, curling around her left side, that clued him in. He picked her up off the stepstool and set her on a chair at the table. Got down in front of her and held both of her hands in his. “Something you want to tell me, Becks?”  _

_ She didn’t have to say a word, just lifted her shirt to reveal a chain of blooming bruises across her ribs. He’d thought at least they had the sense to leave the little kids alone, but the red-purple mess staring back at him argued otherwise. Even Eli sat up and took notice; Cassie rushed across the kitchen for a bag of frozen peas. He didn’t want to say anything in front of the girls but the look he shot Bucky carried one clear meaning - don’t be stupid. You won’t survive.  _

_ He could still pick that moment out, between all the fractured memories and ghosts of a life he might have had once - that moment remained. The night he swore he’d do whatever it took to keep her safe. He couldn’t even sit there and hold her hands without static tickling at the edges of his brain. He wanted to just let it roll over him, throw Eli’s hand off his shoulder and let the deep, dark recesses of his mind take care of the problem.  _

_ It was Becka’s fingers, skating over a half-healed scrape on his cheek, that grounded him. Her words, hushed and fearful, that kept him from charging the stairs. “Stay here.” _

 

The air shifts around him and the hands on his face aren’t hers anymore. He sucks in a quick breath and scrambles backward, only to find he already has his back against the kitchen cabinets. The back of his head is a little sore. Two sets of brown eyes squint at him and he squints back, waiting for focus to return. The face closest to him, scrunched with concern, starts to relax. 

“You dropped like a rock, dude. You feeling OK?” Bruce hands him a cup of water. 

“Uh, yeah. I think.” Shoulder hurts too. 

“Go on, James. Have a bit of a lie-down in the other room. I’ll finish up in here.” Peggy sits back on her heels and watches him, mouth still set in a thin line. “Shall I call Sam?” 

“No,” he shakes his head, reaches for the edge of the counter and hauls himself upright with a little help. He lets them lead him to the sofa. It’s much easier on his sore head to remain quiet.  “I’ll be fine.” 

Bruce ducks back into the kitchen and he hears the oven door squeak open. Peggy lingers in the doorway, still watching. She twists a curl behind her ear thoughtfully. “I know that look. Where were you, love?”

“Just - thinking about making dinner.” he settles back on the couch and glances up at her, tries on a small smile. Her mouth relaxes as well, but her eyes don’t leave him just yet.  

“Long ago, far away or both?” 

“Not far enough.” 

 


	9. Act Naturally

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost wasn't going to write this part. But then I did and I couldn't just leave it alone. Sorry/not sorry but possible feels ahead. May want to have a basket of kittens on hand, just in case.

Monday morning finds him standing in the middle of a department store, flipping through a rack of sweatshirts and reminding himself to breathe every time a strange person passes too closely. He would have been perfectly content to piddle around the house all day until Steve happened upon him sitting on the washer reading his book and waiting for his only pair of pants to finish in the dryer. She’d been insistent. 

“Well, we could stay home instead, perhaps give Sam a call and talk about what happened last night?” Peggy nodded thoughtfully, tapping her fingers on the top of the dryer while he’d tried to ignore the intrusion. 

He was waiting by the car - pants on - before she even found her shoes. 

Currently, Peggy’s behind yet another rack of what she considers more appropriate clothing. Steve giggles into his sleeve every time she makes a suggestion. She has an eye for color but it’s all “nice, upstanding young man” stuff. Pants with pressed creases and button-up shirts. He leans over and mutters to Steve. “Why is she doing this to me?” 

“School starts next month.” 

“So? Don’t you guys go to public school anyway?” 

“Eh, not quite. There’s a dress code.” Steve shrugs, offers a hopeless smile. “We have Casual Fridays?” 

Peggy puts up a hand, waves them both over. Presents him with four hangers of equally boring choices and points him in the direction of the fitting rooms. “Now, I don’t really know what size you are, so just bring back what fits.” She notices the less than thrilled set to his face and gives him a reassuring pat on the back. 

“It’ll be over soon - then you can choose whatever quasi-pajama layabout wear you boys are so enthralled with,” she thrusts two more pairs of pants at the other boy, “Steven don’t think you’re immune to shopping for school clothes.” 

Bucky giggles into his assigned items while they make their way to the quiet little labyrinth at the center of the section. Steve glares at first but it quickly melts into an easy grin as they stake out a changing room with a couch next to the door. He swipes all of Bucky's new clothes by the hanger hooks, flips through them and hands back a dark green shirt and plain khakis. 

“Do those first.” Steve settles himself on the couch alongside the other clothes and points to the dressing room. 

“Since when were you in charge, punk?” Bucky lets a smile start to crack and lingers in the doorway. 

“Since your wardrobe consists entirely of worn-out and near-worn-out tee shirts in used-to-be-black.” Steve sticks out his tongue. “Jerk.” 

“Hey - I own a pair of pants.” He ducks into the room before Steve can start throwing things at him, finally gets a look at the large mirror inside. Strips off his shirt with practiced ease, grabs the back of the collar and yanks forward in one movement. 

He can still deal pretty well as long as he doesn’t dwell on the left side. Physical therapy had been more than helpful in filling him out,  a vast improvement over the broken, underfed thing he’d been at admission. A handful of temporary breaks with reality and the occasional somewhat-provoked fight kept him in reasonable shape. The rest is kind of a train wreck. Faced with the gnarled map of scars covering what remains, he shivers and tries to look anywhere else. The surgeon hadn’t been particularly elegant about the whole process and tiny dots line either side of the largest ridges - leftover reminders of stitches and staples that held his skin together for the first couple of weeks. A handful of twisted white lines stretch over his shoulder and chest -  _ broken ribs, broken collarbone, torn muscles - like something tried to rip his arm right off -  _

_ Nope. _

He faces the other way and begins the minutes-long wrestling match known as getting dressed. 

“Were you always this much of a pain in the ass?” he shouts over the door, silently fighting with the impossibly tiny shirt buttons. At least the fabric is soft, even if it does slip through his fingers every couple of seconds. 

“Yup,” Steve yells right back.  _ Can’t argue with that.  _ “Funny thing is, you used to give me grief for the way I dressed all the time. I made it three weeks in second grade wearing the same outfit and you never let me hear the end of it.”

“So I was the asshole?” 

“Nah, you were actually the nice one. All the teachers just loved the crap out of you.” Steve laughs from the other side of the door. “All the girls, too.” 

_ Huh. _ “Is that so?” 

“No accounting for taste, I guess.” 

“I musta been a cute kid or something.” He mumbles and ties his fingers in knots. One more button done. 

“Yeah, you dropped the ball on that one.” Bucky cracks the door open just to glare at him. 

“Don’t you have some pants to try on or something?” Steve glances at the tag in one pair and shrugs. 

“They’re fine. Hurry up so I can pick on you some more.” He shuts the door and groans. They’re both quiet for several minutes while he manages to fasten a grand total of - 

“You OK in there?” 

_ Three buttons. Awesome.  _ He sighs. “There’s a reason I don’t do a whole lot of button-up stuff.” 

“Jeez, come on out here.” Steve’s already opening the door. Bucky shuffles out dutifully, lets his hair fall back in his face. He needs the space right now.  _ Great. Can’t even get dressed without fucking it up.  _

He doesn’t move when Steve reaches up and does up the rest of his shirt, fingers light and quick. He leaves the top button undone, smooths the collar down. Lingers over the tendril of scar that shows at his throat. Looks him up and down again.  _ Breathe in.  _ Bucky turns to the mirror, frowns at his reflection. His left sleeve hangs empty and flat. He grimaces at his hair, tries to straighten up. Doesn’t get any better. 

“I look like a dork.”  _ Breathe out.  _

“Gimme a minute. I can fix this.” He stays still while Steve paces around him, brows knit and lips pressed together. Doesn’t budge when Steve takes off for the racks again, comes back with a couple more items and swings by the unattended stand at the dressing room entry for a handful of pins and a rubber band. 

He ignores the heat creeping up the back of his neck and breathes through having his space so thoroughly invaded by someone not in a medical profession. Steve works quickly, glancing up occasionally through pale lashes. He folds up the empty sleeve to just below the end of Bucky’s stump, creases the folds smartly. Brushes his thumb over skin that’s forgotten how to be touched. 

Bucky jerks back, instinctively. Starts to push the sleeve back down but gets his hand swatted away by a furiously blushing junior tailor, who pins the sleeve in place without another word. 

“You this personable with all the girls?” Bucky forces a laugh, just something to break the suddenly awkward silence. He’d be stupid not to notice the smile curling the edges of Steve’s mouth, the flush spreading over his freckled nose. The way he’s taking his sweet damn time smoothing every last seam and fold just so. The way he’s pointedly looking anywhere but his friend’s face. 

Bucky’s pretty stupid. 

Steve slides the rubber band off his wrist and pushes up on his toes. “Ever consider a haircut?” 

“Try it and lose a finger.” All the attention is a little unnerving but he endures it. 

“Just a question. Grumpy much?” It’s not entirely unpleasant to have another set of hands threading through his hair, pulling it all into a smooth, neat ponytail. Being fussed over is kind of nice. There’s something familiar, something  _ natural _ \- if it were anyone else he’d have ducked back in the dressing room, never to return, or flat passed out from forgetting to breathe. But this? It’s careful and curious at the same time, each one ready to back off at the first sign of trouble, but neither willing to be the first. Steve’s nose inches from his, face set in concentration, taking entirely too long to arrange every stray hair. “It suits you.” 

“Thanks?” This earns him a chuckle. Steve steps back quickly, grabs the last item off the couch, a brown and grey vest. Bucky turns to the mirror. He’s not entirely displeased with the reflection. The pants are deceptively comfortable if a bit long. He could get used to dressing like a dork. “Hey, you don’t have to - I mean, I  _ can  _ dress myself.” 

“Yeah but you’re terrible at it.” Steve hands him the vest. “Put this on.” 

“I mean it. Why bother?” Bucky fusses at the buttons for all of two seconds before Steve pushes his hands out of the way again and finishes the job. 

“Because you’re my friend, ya jerk.” he ducks his head a little and fastens the last button. “I’m with you, remember?” 

_ Till the end of the line.  _ The back of his head tingles and he has a hard time gathering in another breath.  _ That’s how this ends.  _

_ The fuck did that come from? _

Steve folds Bucky’s right sleeve to match with way too much focus. He flicks his eyes up when he thinks Bucky’s not looking and gets caught. He flips up the sleeve once more, a little too forcefully, and shakes his head. He turns back to their reflections and grins. “See, I made you pretty again.” 

They’re not the little kids he pictured the other day. They’re not little, not even really kids for much longer, but it’s still there - just like that day in the apartment - shadow and light. Bucky checking every corner for monsters, Steve ready to fight them all. It’s only natural when Steve slides his hand down Bucky’s forearm, fits their hands together like it was nothing, and gives a little squeeze. The air in the room goes thin.  _ What in the ever-loving hell -  _

_ Breathe. Shut up. Breathe. Don’t let go.  _ He wonders if it was always that way, wonders just how much of a life he got cheated out of when his parents never came back - 

“Boys?” Peggy calls out from around the corner. Steve yanks his hand back and instantly puts about three feet between them. “We haven’t much time.” 

“You should get changed,” he mumbles, instantly engrossed by his shoes. Bucky huffs and shuffles back into the dressing room.  _ Alright then -  _

Tries not to think too much while he’s wiggling back into his own pants.  _ Respectable clothes ain’t too bad. _ Tries not to dwell on how warm and bright - how completely normal - it made him feel, to be looked after instead of looked at. Tries not to wonder why Steve dropped his hand like it was on fire the second someone else was around. Undoing buttons goes much faster and in short order he’s staring at the train wreck again. He twists back, checking the floor.  _ Now where the hell did I put my -  _

“You left your shirt on the other room.” Steve pushes the door open and freezes to the spot, stare locked onto Bucky’s now exposed ribcage. The ratty black shirt he’d been returning just puddles at his feet, hand outstretched before either one can react. 

Steve swallows hard, traces the edge of a different scar - a raised, shiny arc across the other boy’s side, spanning the lower half of his ribs. Three more arcs, nested like bowls below the first. Fading at the edges, distorted with time. It’s older than most of the others. 

Neither one moves. Could’ve been seven seconds, could’ve been seven million years. 

“Is that what I think it is?” Steve manages a bare whisper. 

“Standard GE electric burner. Right front if it matters.” Bucky trains his eyes on his feet. The tingle in the back of his head builds to a buzzing noise. He shrugs and pulls away, continues his conversation with the floor. “Stopped hurting after a couple minutes, anyway. Better me than one of the girls.” 

“Why didn’t you call, Buck? You know we’d have been there in a heartbeat. Ma would've moved heaven and earth if she thought you were in trouble.” 

He scoops the discarded shirt off the floor and yanks it over his head. “I didn’t have a choice. Those people would’ve killed me before they’d ever let me even talk to someone else. Anyway -” he pushes past Steve and scoops the extra clothes up off the couch, “I wouldn’t have left the others.” 


	10. Strawberry Ice Cream Protocol

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which I take great, leaping liberties with Avengers and Marvel canon. 
> 
> Love me some AU.

Awake. Ten boards cross the frame, supporting the mattress over his head. A. Wake. The blue flower pattern on the underside of the mattress has little spots of orange in it. Not. Fucking. Sleeping. Somebody sneezes across the hall. Goddamn it. 

He blinks and his eyes are on fire. Steve rolls over - the frame squeaks and Bucky resists the urge to kick the bed above him. Why does he get to sleep so easy when Bucky’s been spending the last hour actively trying to figure out where he fucked up? Why does he always assume it’s  _ his _ fuckup? Maybe Steve’s the one in the wrong here.  

Since they got back, Steve hasn't said more than a half dozen words to him. He’d spent the whole afternoon holed up in their room, hunched over notebooks and trailing his fingers across drawings on the walls. The whole ride home, he was all woeful gazes and a single whispered question. 

“When did you forget about us?” 

Come to think of it, he can’t really say when Ed’s habit of bouncing his head off of walls and counters started to have an effect. There are things he remembers. It’s not all lost forever. His mom, sitting on the floor in the living room and painting her toenails, then leaning over and swiping a coat of pink or purple across his toes, too. His dad, taking them on long walks around the neighborhood. Getting noodles and mango ice cream from Mrs. Dao on the corner. And then this kid. 

This kid that didn’t have a name a week ago. That he was pretty sure he’d made up because the only pictures of the two boys together existed on Wendy Barnes’ hard drive and in a series of sketchbooks on Sarah Rogers’ shelf, both long since passed from existence. Sam said it wasn’t unusual for children in his situation to have had imaginary friends.  _ Wrong, buddy. So wrong.  _

Darting up and down flights of stairs amid water balloons and some very surprised neighbors. 

Sitting across from each other in a classroom, straying from the work at hand to try and make the other be the first to break the silence and laugh. 

Leaning up against a bathroom sink, pressing handfuls of those worthless crunchy brown paper towels against Steve’s nose, waiting for the bleeding to stop and coming up with the story they’d later repeat to teachers and his mom. Anything but the truth - that Steve had gone howling after some dumb kid that made fun of Bucky’s accent and refused to back down. 

_ When did you forget about us?  _

_ I didn’t forget about you dumbass - I forgot that you were real.  _

He thinks about kicking the mattress again. If he’s going to lie awake all night wondering what the hell his major malfunction is, he should have company. He shakes the blanket off one leg and - 

“Buck? You awake?” the small voice he hadn’t heard all afternoon comes from above. 

“Maybe.” He rubs the heel of his hand against one eye.  _ I’d rather not be.  _

“Hey - I didn’t mean to get mad. You know, earlier?” 

“Yes, I was there too. I can remember this morning.” 

“It was just - Natasha told me what happened to you. At that house?”

“Yeah.” Steve waits a long time to speak again. Bucky can hear him pull in a shaky breath. 

“I’m sorry you had to go through all that. And I’m sorry we couldn’t get to you.” 

“It wasn’t your job to save me.”  _ no, that job belonged to the state of New York. Shouldn’t let psychopaths take in kids, assholes.  _ He rolls over and smashes his face into the pillow. The frame creaks again and he rolls back to find Steve sitting on the ladder, peering at him through the rungs and chewing on a fingernail. 

“I shoulda -” he starts to mumble around his hand but Bucky stops him. 

“Shoulda what? You were, what, eleven? Twelve? What the hell were you supposed to do?” he fixes on the other boy with a fierce stare. Gets the same fire shot right back at him. Someone coughs down the hall. Steve goes back to biting his fingers and Bucky stares down the flower pattern above his head. 

“What were they like?”  _ Really?  _

“They were fucking monsters, Steve. I thought we covered that already.”  _ Jee. Zus. Christ.  _

“No - god, Bucky, I don’t even - the other kids. You said you wouldn’t have left the others.” 

He pushes up to sitting and cocks an eyebrow. “You really wanna know?”

Steve gives him a smile, slow and soft. Still coulda lit up the room. “Yeah.”

So he tells him everything he can remember. Eli Bradley, with his mile-deep brown eyes and selfless dedication to the group. Who could have, at sixteen, walked away from all of them on more than one occasion but didn’t. He told Steve about the picture Eli kept under his pillow, the creased and wrinkled photo of his granddad, a fighter pilot in the 99th Pursuit Squadron in the second World War. Said if his granddad didn’t give up on a country that never had his back, who was he to give up on three other kids who fought just as hard for him? 

He told Steve about Cassie Lang. “You woulda liked Cassie - she’s like you.” 

“How?” 

“Doesn’t know how to walk away from a fight. That girl - shit, she’d get right up in someone’s face even if she knew she was gonna get a beating. She had some kinda heart thing when she was born - figured if she was doomed from the start and living on borrowed time, might as well go down fighting.” 

Steve laughs a little and then remembers. “Man, I’m sorry - “   
Bucky pushes him off the ladder and grins. “Stop it. Sure, we were all stuck in this giant shitty situation - but we looked out for each other, y’know? And yeah, it was kind of funny watching Cassie lay into some kid twice her size. Ten pounds of crazy in a two pound bag.”

Steve smiles, resettles himself on the floor. Lays his head on the edge of Bucky’s mattress and just - looks at him. Wide-eyed and bright. Bucky picks at the edge of his blanket and talks to his knees. “Just like you. That’s one thing that sticks in my head - you stuck up for me. More’n you shoulda.” 

“I’m with you, jerkwad, remember?” he reaches across and pokes Bucky’s side. “So it was just you three?” 

He pauses. Sucks in a lungful of air and holds it. Lets it out slowly and responds. “No. We all had Becka to look after. She was - something else altogether.” 

Steve’s face goes dark and he pushes up closer, sits on the edge of the bed. “What happened?” 

“She was the littlest out of all of us - came in some time after me, I guess. And I don’t know what crawled up their butts and died, but something about her just set those people off. They really let her have it.” He frees a loose thread on the edge of his blanket and pulls it, lets the static in his brain swell for a second and recede. He feels Steve’s hand on his leg through the blanket and it keeps him anchored to that spot. Keeps him from spinning off into those days when he’d do anything just to make sure she didn’t go to bed with an empty stomach or new bruises. 

When he looks back up at Steve, he doesn’t bother to wipe away the wetness gathering in the corners of his eyes. “They woulda killed her if I wasn’t there.”

Before the last word is out of his mouth, he’s surrounded. Skinny arms wrapped around him, pulling him forward and squeezing for all it’s worth. Whispered apologies and light fingers trailing over his hair, over his wrecked shoulder. His chest is locked up and he can’t breathe at first but he doesn’t care. The first bit of air he manages to get in pours right back out in a series of snotty, undignified gulps and a wounded noise he didn’t know he was capable of. 

But none of that really matters right now. Right now, it’s just him and this fiery little brat from Brooklyn who still has his back. Always did. 

“Guys?” the door creaks open and Nat peers in at them, hair still sleep-messed and pulling a sweatshirt over her head. She doesn’t wait to be asked in. She slides across the room and drops on her knees next to the bed. 

“Whose ass do I have to kick?” she pulls at Steve’s arm. Bucky puts his head up long enough to register the identity of their visitor, clumsily wiping his face against Steve’s shoulder, hand still twisted up in the back of the boy’s shirt, hanging on to the fabric for dear life. 

“Nobody, Nat. Unless you’ve got a time machine.” She nods and he puts a little air between himself and Bucky, keeps rubbing lazy circles up and down his spine until he’s able to catch his breath again. He reluctantly disentangles his hand and runs it back through his hair, trying and failing to make himself more presentable. He glances between Natasha and Steve, blue and green eyes trained on him, waiting for signs of life. 

“God, stop staring at me like I’m gonna do a trick.” A smile spreads between the three of them. Natasha rocks back on her heels, produces a scrunchie from -  _ apparently nowhere _ \- and performs some magic trick that only girls with long hair seem to know, leaving a perfectly messy bun behind. Steve nods at the phone, charging on the end of the desk. 

“Should we call Sam?”  _ Shit, no. He’d probably sprain something trying to get here fast enough. Straight up sprout wings and fly his butt right on over.  _

“It can wait until morning.” he backs up a little, away from the sudden onslaught of attention. “I’ll be fine, just go on back to bed.”

Both of them smile and shake their heads. Nat hops up behind him and now he really is surrounded. She waves a hand at Steve and he stands up, scoops a pair of slippers off the floor. “Nope, not how it works. Steven? Fetch the supplies.” 

“Supplies?” She settles herself behind his back, stretching one long leg out on either side of him, showing off the individually rainbow-colored toes on today’s socks. Steve takes off down the stairs.

“You think you’re the first person to crack up in this house? You really didn’t pay attention at the orientation.” 

“There was no -”

“Look,” she twists herself so she can get a good look at him. “Emotions are a thing. I’m sure you’ve had this talk with the inimitable Mister Wilson by now.” she scoots back again and begins to slide her fingers through his hair, catching and working out tangles, dividing and twisting little sections. 

“You know him?” he starts to pull away but she tucks her knees up against his ribs, holding him in place. He surrenders, huffs in resignation. “Are you trying to -”

“Yes, that’s what I’m doing and who the fuck do you think placed almost everyone here?” she resumes her work. 

“Did he place you?” 

“No,” she stops for a minute and puts her chin on his shoulder. “Tony and I - we came with the house.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Well you wanted to know who adopted me, right?” she goes back to her project. 

“You’re a Stark? You guys are -” Bucky keeps trying to put that image together in his head but he can’t get it to quite stick. 

“Yup,” she sighs and he can hear her roll her eyes just a tiny bit. “He may be kind of a dick but he is my brother. It’s actually our parents’ foundation that funds this place. And if you couldn’t tell by now, we’re not exactly the picture of mental health.” 

“Except for Steve,” Bucky mutters. 

“You just haven’t had the chance to see him really lose his shit,” she shrugs and separates another section of hair. “I’ll admit he’s passionate, but he is  _ such _ a sloppy fighter.”

“I think he’s always been like that.” 

“So you do remember him?” she starts weaving sections together, picking up a little from each side as she goes. He tells her about the imaginary friend theory, how he was so sure this kid that always seemed to be pulling his buns out of the oven as far as he could remember was some kind of coping mechanism - something he made up to ease the pain of losing his only family. She just nods and hums and keeps on working. 

Steve returns with three spoons in one hand and a tub of strawberry ice cream in the other. He grins and drops them onto the floor, slipping back into place on the other side. “I have supplies.” 

“You forgot my skittles.” 

“You’re out of skittles.” 

Natasha leans over his shoulder and gives a thoughtful smile. “You didn’t really like Clint all that much, right? Because if bitch ate my skittles again, I might have to get rid of him. Or just put all his shorts in the freezer again.” 

“A-anywho,” Steve reaches up for something on the bookshelf closest to them. “Before Nat exacts her revenge, we still have things to do.”

“That’s right! Enact the protocol.”

“What the hell are you two on about?” Natasha finally releases him as she snaps a rubber band around the end of her work. 

“First, we make you pretty. Check.” she pats down the braid and scoots around to sit next to him. Steve flips open the laptop he took down and the light from the screen is temporarily blinding. He looks up at the two others, squinting and shying away. 

“Gimme a minute, guys.” He taps a few more keys, sets the laptop on the floor and the screen goes dark. Instead, it starts up a projection against the wall and the closed door. “Step two, pick a movie.” 

“I don’t know, guys I haven’t even seen -”

“Real people or cartoon?” Steve stops him, one hand poised over the keyboard. He rolls his eyes in the dark, but he’s pretty sure Natasha can see him because she stifles a giggle against the back of her hand. 

“Fine. Real people.” 

“Okay then, old or new?” 

“Umm - old.” 

“Really old or just older than you?” 

“The second one.” 

“You get  _ Breakfast Club _ . Sit back and enjoy.” The screen changes on the projection and Steve leans back against the bed. The great thing about having shitty memory is that movies are always kind of a surprise. He honestly can’t remember if he’s seen this, even if the title does sound familiar. 

Nat grabs the ice cream and two of the spoons. “The ice cream is for eating.”

“What if I don’t want the ice cream?” 

She just smirks and digs out a big spoonful. “You will.” 

He reaches over her to steal back his pillow, hugging it under his chin as the movie starts. Glances between the two of them again - they’re passing the ice cream back and forth. He finds after a few rounds of watching the tub pass in front of him, he kind of does want the ice cream. He picks up the last spoon and soon all three are wordlessly trading the tub and watching the movie. Bucky takes a bit longer with it than the other two - ends up nestling the ice cream between his leg and Steve’s to dig out a good scoop. Nat points her spoon right at his stump and makes a noise around a mouthful of ice cream. 

“Huh?” 

She licks a drip of ice cream off her thumb and points again. “Your arm. You should have Tony take a look at it.” 

“Why, what could he do?” 

“Well for starters, he’s scary smart. You know that thing he dragged into the kitchen the other day?” 

“Yeah, that was kinda cool. Creepy when it started answering him, though.” 

“He built that.” Steve interjects, stealing the tub from Nat and taking a bite. He holds it out to Bucky. 

“Really?” He accepts, works out a bit with a big chunk of strawberry in it. 

“When he was ten.” Natasha finishes. 

_ Well, shit.  _

“What makes you think he’d even want to help me?”

“What makes you think he’d pass up the challenge?”


	11. Missing Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Useful, if somewhat reluctant, alliances are formed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the long gap - I moved! (OK, so it was like a whole block away, but still.) So, still living in a fortress of boxes, but the wi-fi is working and I can find my coffeemaker. That's all that matters anyway, right? I'm hoping that all you kids playing at home are having as much fun as I am.

For once, Bucky wakes up slowly. Has time to register everything going on before he’s completely awake. He doesn’t remember falling asleep during the movie but he must have, and it looks like he wasn’t alone. He can see the discarded tub of strawberry ice cream on the floor but he’s at a loss for what happened to the spoons. The clock on the table says it’s five forty-five. Lazy morning light is just starting to slide in from the window. Something feels off but for the first time it’s not him.  

It might be the fact that consciousness comes easily, washing over him with all the urgency of a stoned slug. It might be the fact that he is in the middle of a pile of sleeping bodies and he doesn’t feel like he’s being suffocated. It might be the fact that, when he does pull in a slow breath, the air feels cleaner, cooler, more - effective, somehow. Whatever happened last night, whatever the hell cracked open and spilled out in his head, he’s not anxious to fix it. 

Steve has managed to wriggle up into the sliver of space between Bucky and the wall, head pillowed against one bent arm, his other hand resting on Bucky’s ribs. Steve’s nose lines up right against his shoulder, breath warm and slow on ruined skin. Like this happens all the time. Natasha is asleep on the other end of the bed, cradling a stolen pillow, one leg tucked up next to her and the other extended right next to his. She’s got her foot dangerously close to his dick and he’s going to need to fix that. He quietly prays that she doesn’t kick in her sleep. But, for now, as long as nobody moves, this is good. This is safe and he is most definitely supposed to be here.

He should probably call Sam sometime today. They may have a few things to talk about. 

He carefully picks up Natasha’s foot and deposits it along the  _ outside _ of his thigh. 

 

***

 

Bucky comes around again later and his head hurts. It’s not like a normal headache, nor is it one of the blindingly painful ones that seem to be the ongoing gift of repeated head trauma. It’s not even so much pain as it is pressure - gentle pressure right between his eyes, like - 

“Heard you slept with my sister.” Tony grins down at him. 

Like some fourteen year old brat is pushing their finger into his forehead. He swats Tony’s hand away and manages to knee the boy in the kidney before he moves enough for Bucky to sit up. Both Nat and Steve are gone and the ice cream tub is still on the floor. “What the hell do you want?” 

“My favorite sister says you need a hand. Literally.” Tony wiggles his fingers and Bucky can’t help a chuckle. “I’m bored, so let’s see this mess.”

“See what?”  _ He couldn’t be talking about - can’t be - man, I just woke up.  _ Bucky’s eyes go wide. 

“Your stump - your flipper - nub - whatever the hell you want to call it. What I’ve got to work with.” He waves a hand dismissively but Bucky doesn’t move. 

“ _ Now? _ ” he fiddles with the sewn-up sleeve, not really anxious to go showing off. Tony rolls his eyes. 

“Yes,  _ now.  _ Aunt Peggy’s letting us out of breakfast and a whole bunch of other crap I’m supposed to be doing today. And I’ve got doughnuts coming if you’re a good little monkey.” 

“Well, can I - y’know -  _ wake up a little bit  _ first?” Bucky kicks the blanket off, revealing the fact he slept just in his shorts. “Maybe put some pants on?”   
“Really? God, fine - whatever. Just be quick - I’m bored  _ right now _ .” Tony darts out the door again. Bucky finds his pants from the day before kicked under the bed. He yanks them on and rushes to catch up. Tony’s waiting for him, in front of the last door on the right, one he hasn’t seen opened yet.  _ This is it? I thought it was a closet.  _

“First, I have rules. Do not touch anything. Do not speak of the things behind this door. They are not for the outside world. Also - Do. Not. Touch. Anything.” He turns back, face set and serious. “Swear it.” 

Bucky just busts out laughing. “Really?” 

Tony straightens up, squares his little shoulders resolutely and demands again. “You want this? Then swear it.”

“Fine, I swear I won’t say, do or touch anything. Or breathe too hard on something. Good enough?” 

“Whatever,” the boy spins around and pushes the door open without another comment. A wooden stairway lies ahead, solid but worn. It leads up to a landing and turns, a faint blue light spilling over the top of the staircase. As they crest the last few steps, he sees why Tony keeps everyone else out of his room. 

It’s a goddamn disaster scene. He’s assuming there are tables holding up two piles of tools, papers and discarded parts. Rising from the chaos are a series of monitors that flicker to life just as Tony hits the top step. Shelves laden with boxes and bins line two walls behind his workspace. He shoves a few papers aside, revealing a keyboard, and immediately begins tapping away, leaving Bucky to wander between the tables, eyeing the hardware suspiciously. A red light blinks underneath a towel and he’s reaching out before he can stop himself. Motors whir to life and the little robot from the kitchen surfaces, knocking an open soda can into Tony’s lap. 

“Dammit, Dummy! What have I told you about just popping up whenever you want?” Tony jumps back, but he’s still soaked in root beer. Bucky retreats for the stairs. 

“Sorry, I’ll just - I should go -” he starts but Tony holds up a finger, rummaging in a basket under the table for a clean shirt. 

“Not you - robot’s name is Dummy. Somehow I managed to program a robot that acts like a fucking dog. Gets all excited when it thinks someone’s come to play.” He peels off the soaked top and whistles. Dummy responds with its own beep. “Ain’t that right?” 

Bucky can’t help but stop and stare at the younger boy. Seems he’s not the only one in the house that’s been reassembled with a staple gun. Radiating from the center of Tony’s chest are a series of scars, pink-ridged lines stretched over what is clearly not just an average ribcage.  _ Like a bomb went off in there,  _ He catches Bucky’s eye and thumps the center of his chest. It’s a hollow sound -  _ well, that ain’t right.  _ He smiles and pokes his head through the clean shirt. 

“Transplant - I’m on my third,” Tony picks up the keyboard again and keeps working, activates a camera. “I have a chest plate so I don’t accidentally fuck this one up.” 

“Well that really sucks,” Bucky half-shrugs and reminds himself not to stare. Despite his efforts to remain indifferent, the corners of his mouth still tug down as he thinks. Tony pitches a balled-up paper at him. 

“Hey, don’t make the face. C’mon, we got a phone call to make.” he taps at the keyboard a few more times and reaches up for the center monitor.  _ Of course it’s a great big touch screen.  _ After a minute, a woman’s face fills the screen. Her glasses have thick, blue frames, her hair is tucked neatly out of sight under a purple paisley scarf. She’s twiddling a pencil between her fingers and frowning at a stack of papers in her lap but immediately breaks into a wide grin when she sees Tony. “Doctor K!” 

“Anthony! How are you, my dear boy?” 

“Need your help, doc,” he flops back into a chair and jerks a thumb at Bucky. “I wanna build an arm.” 

She adjusts her glasses and looks down at her own screen. “I see. What did you have in mind?” 

“Well, for starters, I thought -” the doctor cuts Tony off with a single upheld finger and a simple but mighty  _ shush _ . 

“I wasn’t asking you.” she smiles and turns her gaze to Bucky. “What do  _ you _ want, child?” 

He pokes his bare toes at a stack of books on the floor. “I don’t know, ma’am. I’ve never really thought about it.” 

“Well, what’s something you have trouble with?” she sets aside the papers she’d been looking over and folds her hands neatly over one knee. Bucky glances up once, twice - they’re both staring at him. The back of his neck is on fire and it’s slowly creeping up his face.

“I want to tie my shoes, I guess. It sucks that I can’t wear regular sneakers without someone helping. Makes me feel like a little fucking kid.” he whispers to the floor, waiting for the snickers and taunts that never come. Instead, the other boy squeezes his shoulder gently. Doctor K nods and turns to Tony.

“Well, then, let’s get started. I’d much rather spend my day doing this than grading papers.” 

It takes a couple of hours to collect all the information Doctor K needs. They take measurements, look up plans and designs, then dismiss them all and come up with something completely new. 

“OK, got something I want to try. Doctor K, can I do the thing?” Bucky cringes a little when Tony comes at him with about a hundred wires, each one topped by a tiny, sticky sensor. 

“Go on, boy. Do the thing.” the doctor laughs and waves a hand at him. The sensors feel like sticking his arm in a vat of wet gummy bears, but what they do is amazing. 

Tony walks him through a series of movements and exercises designed to calibrate the sensors, then he pulls Dummy out to the edge of the table and flips a switch on the base. Doctor K leans forward, watching the output from the sensors. 

“Close your eyes.” she instructs him. He does, only to realize that the room is absolutely silent. He can hear Doctor K breathing over the video connection and Tony has apparently disengaged his mouth for the moment, as well. 

“You can still feel your missing arm, can’t you?” she inquires quietly. He nods. 

“Sometimes.” Even with the stump covered in sensors, the sensation is still there. Reflexively, he stretches it a little, pulling his shoulder back. A small metallic noise breaks the silence, like the whine of an electric motor. Tony must be messing with something on the desk. 

“Do you think you could move it for me? Perhaps - bend your elbow?” He can see the action in his mind, and it takes a few tries, but the feeling is there - accompanied by that noise again.  _ What the hell is he screwing around with?  _

“Check it out,” Tony pokes Bucky in the side and he opens his eyes. He’s grinning and so is Doctor K. “Do it again.” 

He does. 

Dummy moves, bends at the middle joint. 

Bucky flexes again, moves his shoulder at the same time. The robot reaches up, bumps into a box of leftover wires. 

_ Well, holy shit.  _


	12. How We Got This Far

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I've been away some time. It's been a hard month for this little monkey. Please enjoy this brief jaunt back in time while I work out the issues of the present.

The thing that Bucky can’t get used to is that his new roommates are so willing to help him. Peggy’s strategically placed sticky notes, in impossibly neat and sweeping cursive, reminding him to drink plenty of water, take his meds, and that she is so glad he came to them. Nat and Steve at his side every day, educating him on house rules and routines, helping him get ready to face the world when school starts in a few weeks. Sam’s calls and visits and constant encouragement that this is the best possible placement. Tony and his series of increasingly complicated machinations designed to replace his most noticeable loss. 

He’s not used to people who really and truly have his back. He spent a very long time feeling like a burden, shuffled between caseworkers and foster placements that just didn’t work, then forgotten as Terry and Ed did their damnedest to dodge inquiries and bluff through home visits and keep on with their twisted little games. 

What he doesn’t know is that people have been fighting for him all along. They tried, and they fought like hell, but sometimes things just don’t quite go as planned. 

The fight started almost immediately, in slick plastic seats in an emergency room waiting area where two boys leaned against each other, fading in and out of consciousness, starting awake every time footsteps sounded in the tiled hallway. It was the last set of footsteps - slow, clearly exhausted - that stirred Sarah and set her teeth on edge. She glanced quickly at the boys - neither one moved, still curled up in adjacent seats, fingers still hooked together in the space between. 

The tired surgeon rounded the corner and stopped, flicking her eyes around the room. They were alone, even the TV broadcast in the corner having given up and faded to static more than an hour before. She glanced at the folder in her hands. “Mrs. Rogers?” 

Sarah didn’t want to respond. Maybe that was the trick - maybe if she just stayed seated, kept her mouth shut -  _ Rogers is a pretty common name, she could be looking for some other person  _ \- maybe if she refused to acknowledge it, she could keep it from becoming real. On this side of the line, that soft little mop of brown hair still had parents. She still had a best friend. On this side of the line, they could just go home, go back to sleep. Wendy would still come by on Sunday morning, bring some of that coffee cake from the bakery a block away. They would still sit at her kitchen counter and chat, still giggle at Bucky and Steve rising blearily from their nest of blankets on the living room floor. 

_ Christ, the kid still wears superhero pajamas - who am I to take all that away?  _

None of this should be new. She’d seen enough loved ones, family members trying to deny the inevitable. Held enough hands while it dawned on them that they’d be walking out short a piece of their heart. She’d been a trauma nurse across town going on ten years, almost all of Steve’s life. 

She buried her own husband before the ink was dry on her nursing certificate. None of this should be surprising. 

“Yes?” she croaked out. The surgeon stepped forward. She was shorter than Sarah, putting her surgical cap on eye level. There was still a spot of blood on her cap. She couldn’t rip her eyes away from it, even as the other woman spoke. Words slipped past her like people on a crowded sidewalk, all while she wondered -  _ is that Wendy’s or George’s? _

“ -- bring the boy in so he can say goodbye?” The surgeon was staring at her, arms folded, soft wrinkles forming around deep brown eyes. Sarah felt every bit of warmth drain from her body, right into the floor. “Do you need a few minutes, ma’am?” 

“Umm - no. No, I’m fine -” she turned to sit back down and stumbled. The surgeon caught her elbow and eased her down. She swivelled her head back to where the kids were sitting, still asleep and still oblivious. “No, I don’t think so. He doesn’t need to see that.” 

“Do you want to come back? I could ask someone to keep an eye on them,” the surgeon kept her hand on Sarah’s arm, offering whatever small comfort she could. Sarah just shook her head, eyes already beginning to sting. She dared not force words past the thickness building in her chest, not yet. There was still much more yet to do, many miles to go before she could sleep. 

Another hour of signing paperwork, talking to more hospital staff, more paperwork.  _ Someone will call Monday for the boy.  _

Twenty minutes to wake Bucky, stare into pale blue eyes that in all good sense shouldn’t look a thing like Wendy’s but they did anyway, and watch the knowledge settle over him. He pressed his mouth into a thin line and flipped the hood of his sweatshirt up. She couldn’t bring herself to say the words out loud. Not yet. She slipped her hand over his, waited. 

She remembered that much - Wendy always said,  _ don’t just grab him, he’ll freak out. Put your hand out and wait. When he’s ready, he’ll come around. _ Even with Wendy and George, it was always just that - just the hands. Little squeeze. Big one if he was scared. He was nine before he gave either of them a proper hug and Wendy’d been at her door later that night all sniffles and smiles.  _ He hugged me.  _

Little squeeze. Sarah squeezed back. She glanced at her own son, still grasping Bucky’s other hand. Leaned forward and kissed him on the top of his head. 

Ten minutes for the orderly to bring the white plastic bag she knew was coming - George and Wendy’s things. Keys, wallet, little yellow evening bag. 

Grab a taxi home. Drag all the pillows and blankets onto the floor in front of the couch. She settled the kids in and put the bag on the kitchen table. Twelve hours - between the phone call she never wanted to get and silently losing it in her bathroom, sobbing into a towel so the kids wouldn’t hear. Twelve hours to make her son’s best friend an orphan for the second time. Twelve hours to lose her own best friend. 

Another twelve hours would bring knowledge that Wendy and George Barnes had no extended family, at least not that anyone could find. Sarah was running a fever that day and threw back a handful of Tylenol while she waited for Bucky to grab some things from his room. 

Twenty-four and she’d also find out they had no will. Her chest still felt heavy, just like that night in the emergency room. A weight that just wouldn’t budge. 

Three more days and she’d be arguing in front of a family court judge for a chance to keep Bucky - at least until they could find a more permanent placement. She felt like absolute crap that day, pulled it together long enough to make her case then called out sick to her shift that night. 

Five more days and she’d find herself sitting on a gurney in front of the head of the trauma department and a chest x-ray she couldn’t bring herself to look at. She’d passed out in the middle of her shift, unable to catch a deep enough breath all night. He just patted her hand and said they’d do everything they could to help her. 

Her bid to keep Wendy’s child was denied and he’d be placed within the week. His file would land on the desk of one Maria Hill, who would continue the fight for something better. She even tried convincing her boss it was worth letting Sarah Rogers take the boy, even if she’d be too sick to care for her own son inside of a year. But that decision was made well above her pay grade and she tried to find the next best thing. 

“Two placements in six weeks - poor kid barely gets to settle in before they just  _ return  _ him, like a defective toaster or something.” Maria lamented to her girlfriend over dinner one night. “What is wrong with these people?” 

“What’s his deal?” Sharon nodded, poking at the bowl of takeout pad thai between them. Sharon in her second year of med school and Maria working all the time, cooking was not high on the list of things they did in their off-time. The Thai place around the corner was also an excellent reason not to cook. Normally Maria would have wiped out half the dish and a couple of spring rolls by now. “Is he violent or something?” 

“It’s not - he’s just - you don’t get it, Shar. You had a mom and a dad. This kid - twice, he gets the rug yanked out from under him. Of  _ course _ he’s gonna be a little on edge. You know what the last foster said? Said he wasn’t  _ affectionate enough _ . I coulda punched her right there.” Maria plunged her fork into the bowl of noodles and sighed, leaving it there. She wasn’t hungry anymore. 

“Baby, I’m sorry, is there anything I can do?” Sharon reached across the table and stroked her fingers across Maria’s cheek, tucking short, dark strands behind her ear. 

“Wanna adopt a twelve year old with attachment issues?” Maria smiled weakly and caught Sharon’s hand in her own. “I’m running out of places to put this kid.” 

“I might know somebody. Remember my aunt out on Long Island? She’s got a thing going on - I could always ask.” Sharon came around the table and settled herself on Maria’s thigh, letting the other woman rest her head wearily on her chest. 

“Hold off on that, we’ve still got one more left to try. Seems like it might be a good fit, some couple out in Queens.” Maria pressed her face into Sharon’s neck, breathing her in, lavender with an undertone of Betadine. She nuzzled further into Sharon’s dark blond hair before she spoke again. “Remind me why I do this again?" 

Sharon laughed and tilted her face up to kiss her, full and sweet with the lingering taste of the noodle sauce still on her lips. “Because you have a soul.” 

Something didn’t seem right with those people. 

Maria tapped her pen against the top of the clipboard, barely listening to her boss, Nick, carrying on most of the interview she should have been leading. She’d been on edge ever since the woman, Terry, took extra pains to  _ emphasize _ how much work they did with special-needs kids and how James Barnes would be  _ just perfect  _ for their little family.  __

She didn’t like how their other two children, Eli and Cassie, sat quietly with their hands folded in their laps and never once raised their eyes to look at any adult in the room. Maria could count on one hand the number of kids she’d seen in that office able to sit still that long and none of them for good reasons. 

She didn’t like Ed, hated his too-loud laughter. She didn’t like his shiny black patent leather shoes next to Eli’s worn-out sneakers and Cassie’s scuffed pink Mary Janes that looked painfully tight. She didn’t like their stiff, shiny hair and she didn’t like their stiff, shiny smiles.

Maria didn’t feel right about any of this. She smiled tightly, nodded, and took notes. She flipped up the top paper on her clipboard and scrawled out a short note to Nick. Shook hands, thanked them for their time. “We’ll be in touch soon.” 

She watched until the group disappeared down the long hallway, then handed the clipboard to Nick. “You won’t like my recommendation.” 

He leaned against the wall just outside the doorway and flipped through the papers pinned there. Saw her note. “You don’t make the final call, Hill. You know that.” 

“But you see what I’m getting at, right?” Maria folded her arms across her chest. He trained his one good eye on her, the pupil of his glass eye drifting slightly off center, pinning her in place. 

“Smiles like they got a stack of bodies in the basement,” Nick muttered, pushing off the wall toward his office. Maria followed. “Still not your call.” 

He was right and there wasn’t anything she could do to stop the placement. She pushed her card into James’ jacket pocket before she squeezed his shoulder and let him go again. Still, she found herself looking back through closed investigations, calling other offices in the state, looking for anything that might warrant taking another look at the placement. 

She kept her phone next to her, even at home, just in case. Sharon took one look at how Maria stared at it and chewed her thumbnail when she thought no one was looking and left the matter alone. 

Two months in, a folder appeared on her desk one morning. No indication of the source, just a handful of photocopied items - a newspaper clipping from a couple years back, part of a page of notes from some other caseworker, comments from an emergency room doctor in Rochester. Nate Richards, eleven years old, died in the care of his foster family. 

_ Aren’t Terry and Ed from Rochester? _

She couldn’t get to Nick’s office fast enough. Slammed open the door, dropped the folder on his desk. “We need to go get those kids.”

“What kids, Hill?”

“All of ‘em, not just James.” she sucked in a breath and flipped the folder open in front of him. He picked up the top sheet. “They killed a kid already. In Rochester.”  

Nick sighed and pushed the paper back across the table to her. “I know.” 

She looked at the caseworker’s signature on all the notes.  _ N. Fury.  _

“Who do you think left you the folder?” 

Working together, they tried all they could think of, followed up on anything that sounded even a tiny bit like a complaint or a reason to investigate. Those two grinning crocodiles met them at every turn. Surprise home visits never seemed all that surprising - half the time Terry would meet them at the door, flimsy excuse in hand, and they wouldn’t even be able to get in to see the kids. They had a doctor’s note when James supposedly fell out of a tree and got a concussion that made a teacher look twice and call with her suspicion. Excuses at the ready when Eli broke his hand. Another two weeks would pass and Maria would find out that all three children had been pulled from public school to be homeschooled by those button-down psychopaths. 

When they took in another child - a five year old this time - that report came across Maria’s desk, too. When she tried to stop the placement, she suddenly found both herself and Nick removed from the case, locked out of any information on either the parents or any of the children. Terry’s sister worked in the family courts system, too. It wasn’t hard to follow the trail after she found that out. 

It would be another year and a half before she heard the name James Barnes again. She was elbow-deep into a new stack of files, looking up information and scheduling visits all morning. 

“I’d like to report a theft, please. I’m missing a pound of sliced turkey. It was in my fridge and now it’s not.” the woman on the line said. Maria sighed, wishing she hadn’t been so quick to pick up her phone. 

“Ma’am, this is the Administration for Children’s Services, we don’t handle that. I’d be more than happy to - ”  

“Is your name Maria?” the woman asked abruptly. 

“Yes, it is, but I don’t -”

“I found your card. On the sidewalk, outside my house. I think my neighbor dropped it - young guy, little twitchy around the edges. My son said he traded the boy the turkey for walking our dog.” 

“Ma’am, what is this about? I really don’t have time -” she started to put her phone back down, thumb hovering over the red disconnect button.  The woman’s voice grew low and grave.

“I think there’s something going on at that house, Maria. Those kids - they don’t seem right. The one boy, James - seems off, like he never quite remembers who I am.” Maria froze. Glanced across the hall into Nick’s office, waved her hand frantically when he looked up. 

“Can I get an address?” her voice dropped to a near whisper while she groped in a drawer for paper and pen. She could have written the address before the woman even said it, flashed the notepad at Nick the second he walked through the door. She had an in, a reason to investigate and she wasn’t about to get hung up on some mid-level office worker positioned slightly higher up the food chain than her. 

They’d never get the chance to investigate, though. Two nights later, James was plunging a steak knife into the forearm of one Samuel Wilson, crisis counselor and former foster child of Sharon’s aunt on Long Island. 

 

 


	13. Advanced Duck Bothering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> School looms on the horizon and Tony unveils his latest project.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, you guys, I'm so sorry I've been gone. I wish I could begin to explain where I've been mentally as of late - escaping 2017 intact took just about everything I had left and we're still not quite back on solid ground. But I'm mentally solid enough to finish up another chapter for now. I'm not giving up on this story - I have so many places I want to go with it and I'm quite looking forward to continuing as time and mental fortitude permit. I love you guys.

“When you hear the beep, push the button.” Tony slides a pair of headphones over Bucky’s ears and disappears behind the monitors. “Calibrating response time.”

Bucky hears the beep, he pushes the button.  _ Beep.  _ Button.  _ Beep.  _ Button. Keyboard clacks. Not even a glance upwards. Sometimes there’s a satisfied “hm”, other times a “dammit” and a hard slap on one of the monitors. He flinches at the sound but Tony doesn’t notice. “Again.” 

“Does that ever help?” He’s starting to feel like just another gadget on the worktable. Doesn’t even need his new hand to count the number of times Tony’s said anything to him that wasn’t half tech-speak - mostly just mumbles to himself and adds to an increasing collection of notebooks and stickies surrounding the desk. 

_ Beep.  _ Button. 

At first, it was all pretty exciting, really. New house, new people wanting nothing more than to just see Bucky getting better. Getting back a shred of the family he thought he’d lost forever. Mornings slowly became less jarring, and even though he’s still missing significant chunks of the last several years, he can’t say that he’s really  _ missing _ them. On top of all that, it only seemed right that this pint-size mad scientist wanted to give him back the biggest missing piece. 

But unlike everyone else in this house, Tony couldn’t give a shit about Bucky’s well-being. He’s just getting off on advancing prosthetic technology by a decade before he starts his freshman year. Wants to write a paper on the whole twisted science-fair project but Doctor K has already nixed that until Bucky’s ready. 

_ Beep.  _ Button. 

_ It’s Tony’s work, but it’s still your body. _ Doctor K tries to care enough for both of them. 

The arm is heavy, even with all the support straps done up just right, and the alternating metal and composite plates covering his arm shuffle and resettle loudly every time he stretches, grating against his skin. This was supposed to be just a quick test after lunch. It’s coming up on dinner and they’re running the same set of tests for the ninth time. Sam’s coming over tonight and Tony has decided this will be the perfect time to introduce his creation. Then it’s off to school next week - the first time Bucky’s set foot in a public school since forever, and now doing so with a fully robotic appendage? Yeah, sure. No pressure or anything. 

_ Beep.  _ Button. 

It’s just one more in a long string of missed afternoons hanging out with Steve and Natasha, traded for practice, refitting, and experimental duck-bothering, even if watching Tony argue the medical necessity of having a live duck in the house was endlessly entertaining. Through the entire discussion, Aunt Peggy never once asked where the duck came from. Some things should remain a mystery. 

“Again.”  _ Beep.  _

“Can I go now?” Button. 

“One more time.”  _ Beep. _

“You know my reaction time is shit, right?” Bucky narrowly ducks the balled-up paper that comes sailing past the monitor. 

“Seems fine to me. One more time.”  _ Beep.  _ Button. 

“Dick.” Bucky mutters and dodges another paper projectile. Finally, Tony pushes away from his desk. He flips through a notebook, scribbles down a new set of numbers before he stands up. “Can we be done now?”

“Fine. See if I ever build  _ you _ a robot arm again. I still think we need more duck-testing.” Tony pads across the floor in near-threadbare pink bunny slippers. Bucky slides the headphones off and rubs at a sore spot under the top shoulder plate while Tony unhooks testing leads. He doesn’t look up from his work, speaks more softly this time. “You OK?”

“Yeah, just - it’s a little tight sometimes is all,” he mumbles, fiddling with the edge of a strap. The younger boy finally glances up, runs a finger across the top group of plates and presses down.  _ Yep, right there.  _ Bucky squints and tries not to pull back against the pain. 

“It doesn’t have to be,” Tony tosses the last lead aside and picks up a tiny screwdriver instead. Within seconds, the pressure is gone and he can pick his arm up off the table without feeling like he’s taking off a layer of skin. Tony moves behind him to do the same on the section covering his shoulder blade, drops his voice again. “How’s that?” 

More poking and the pressure on his back releases, too. Bucky moves against the much-better fit and the arm responds with a flutter of movement and reshuffling plates. One near his elbow sticks and Tony pokes it down. Another try and all the plates line up perfectly. Tony lets loose with a giggle and a grin Bucky hasn’t seen since the first sensor array worked. He lets his lips twitch up in return. 

“You like?” Tony rolls the screwdriver between his fingers, watching Bucky take the arm through a full range of motion, right down to tapping out a short pattern on the keyboard with shiny new fingers. 

“Yeah, it’s - I like.” Bucky watches the plates slide and flutter again, smiles for real this time. The last thing his time with Ed and Terry had cost him - it’s back and fully functional. 

“Ready to go show off?” 

Before they even hit the top of the stairs, someone’s already tapping at Tony’s door. 

“Guys? Sam’s here.” When they reach the door, Steve’s waiting in the hallway, toeing at a frayed bit of carpet edge and trying not to stare too hard. Tony shoves Bucky ahead of him and nods towards his work. Bucky holds out the arm -  _ his arm _ \- for inspection. 

“I made a robot arm - and what did you do with your summer vacation again?” he sounds way too full of himself most days, but this time he deserves it. 

“So that’s what you’ve been up to?” Steve reaches out tentatively, waits. Bucky nods approval and he runs his fingers over the plates on his forearm. He shivers at the sensation - he knows it’s just a series of electrical impulses, Tony only explained it a million times in the past month  _ only an approximation _ \- but he can’t help but marvel at how real it feels. “Is it done?” 

“Yeah, all ready to come out and play now - so you can stop asking, Stevie.” Tony slips between them and darts down the stairs. He yells back up from halfway. “He’s been texting me like ten times a day to see how you’re doing.” 

The hallway is silent again after a second. Steve runs a hand over his face in an attempt to quell the creeping pink in his cheeks. 

“You’ve been checking up on me?” Bucky smiles and nudges Steve’s shoulder. 

“I was just - I wanted to make sure - nobody ever knows what Tony’s up to. I worry.” The blonde shrugs and goes back to scuffing the carpet. Bucky has to reach out and take his hand - it takes a lot more focus than tapping a button, but suddenly he’s glad for all the practice - and slides silver fingers between Steve’s pale, slender ones. He catches sight of a smudge of black across the base of Steve’s palm. There will be new sketches on the wall soon. 

“It’s kinda nice to be worried about.” They were both content just to be close, watching metal slip over flesh between them, not moving any closer but not anxious to back off, either. For someone who’s lost just about everything twice over, having even a little bit of that - a whole body, just one person who’s been by his side longer than he can remember, a handful of happy memories and a place that’s safe enough to make more - yeah, Bucky’s not all that anxious to back away just yet.   

 

**Author's Note:**

> New sandbox to play in and (I hope) a good story to pass the time. Always happy to hear what you all think - this is new territory for me.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [At Least I Have You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14078682) by [officemonkey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/officemonkey/pseuds/officemonkey)




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